


Our Freedom in My Sight

by lilbatfacedgirl



Series: No Locked Doors [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Back in Chicago, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Rape/Non-con, Healing, M/M, Relationship Issues, Slow Burn, post-season 07
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2018-10-24 03:24:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 118,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10733136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilbatfacedgirl/pseuds/lilbatfacedgirl
Summary: Mandy Milkovich has been attacked by her father for the last time.  She finds the strength to report his crimes and reaches out to her brother, opening up the door for Mickey to return to Chicago in exchange for testimony that could put Terry away for good.  Ian and Mickey find themselves thrust back together as they all work to finally bring down the man who has hurt them all.Title taken from "Welcome Home (Sanitarium)" by Metallica.





	1. It's Why My Brain Says Rage

**Author's Note:**

> This is only my second fic since coming out of a six year semi-retirement, so please be gentle! This one is going to be a bit different. My last fic focused on the boys being in a safe place and healing. This is going to be a lot more typically Shameless-esque. It's set much closer to the end of season 7 and the characters and world they live in are still pretty damaged. They're all trying their best, though, and I guess that's all we can really ask for.
> 
> I will be trying to maintain a weekly posting schedule but the second semester is drawing to a close and I have a lot of responsibilities that need tending. If I ever disappear for a week or so, though, don't despair. I don't leave fics unfinished. It's kind of a compulsion.

**March 2019**

It was the squeaking that bothered him the most, the rubbery soles of his regulation work shoes uttering high pitched cries of resistance against the waxed linoleum of the floor.  Everything about this hallway made him nervous, from the walls of tempered glass windows, to the hard, unforgiving blonde wood benches that sat bolted to the floor, to the harsh glare of a thousand fluorescent lights glowing one right after another.  He’d spent some time cuffed and seated on those benches; less than Lip and way less than Mickey, but some time nonetheless.

And so the squeaking made him nervous because the hallway was mostly quiet and each little shriek of rubber on floor made a head turn and a gaze lock on him, rife with judgemental expectation.  Ian Gallagher, back again.  Didn’t matter how hard he tried to go legitimate, he’d always be Gallagher trash from the south side.  

Another squeak, this one just in front of him, caught his attention, pulling him out of his paranoid inner monologue.  Tony Markovich strolled only a step in front of him, his own shoes emitting little chirps in an identical rhythm.  Ian startled for a minute, giving his head a little shake.  He wasn’t in any trouble.  He was in the police precinct by invitation, not because he was under arrest. 

In fact, he could leave anytime he wanted.  

Old habits die hard though.  When Tony, or Detective Markovich as he was now known, had shown up at the station looking for him, he’d had to bite down on the instinct to duck out the backdoor and run.  He hadn’t though, because he was a gainfully employed adult whose professional fucking responsibilities included working with the police.  He’d even plastered a smile on his face and asked what was up.

And his good citizenship had landed him here.  Walking the halls of his local precinct with the neighborhood do-gooder, turned beat-cop, turned detective, freaking out about the sounds of his shoes.  

Sometimes civic pride sucked.  

As if reading his mind, Tony threw him a comforting look over his shoulder, but Ian couldn’t find it in him to return it.  He felt weighed down just being in this building and his quilted uniform jacket felt too heavy and hot, despite the chill weather outside.

He’d figured that Tony would take him to one of the interrogation cells buried deep in the bowels of the precinct.  Instead, he was led into a small conference room, complete with real windows and a jug of water with matching glasses.  A woman was seated at the head of the table, wearing a coal gray suit, her graying brown hair pulled back into a severe twist.  She was texting furiously on a phone that was far nicer than any he’d ever owned and acknowledged their entry with only the barest of glances.

Tony didn’t look at all put off by the women’s seeming indifference to them.  In fact, he walked around to the far side of the table, sliding easily into a seat and gesturing to Ian to sit in any of the others.  “This is Katherine Gracy,” he said, indicating the woman in the suit, who returned his introduction with no more than a jerk of her chin, “Katherine is an Executive ADA in the District Attorney’s Office.  The stuff I want to talk to you about is related to a case she’s prosecuting, so she needs to sit in.  It’s really just us talking, though, and I’ve only got a few questions.”

Tony seemed genuine enough, but Ian couldn’t completely tamp down the suspicion that he was being good-copped.  He stared back across the table with a set, unrevealing expression plastered across his features as Tony looked him over.

“Ian, there are a few things that need to be made clear to you before we begin.”

“I know my rights, okay.  I mean, you’ve read them to me before.”

“And those still apply.  But you’re not under arrest.  It’s come to our attention that you may be a material witness to a series of related crimes, but you aren’t a suspect in these crimes, either as a perpetrator, an accomplice, or an accomplice after the fact.  You probably don’t need a lawyer, but if you want one, you can have one, either of your choice or provided by the court system.  If you choose not to retain a lawyer at this time, you may change your mind and request legal counsel at any time.  We cannot compel you to speak to us.  Do you understand this?”

Ian let the words roll around in his head, considering them before he nodded.  

“Okay, here’s the thing,” Tony continued after a quick glance at the ever-texting woman in the gray suit, “This is actually about helping a couple of people you love.  All I’m asking is that you tell me the truth about some stuff, and I’m not gonna screw around; some of it is going to be stuff you probably don’t want to tell me.  Some because I’m a cop and some because you just don’t want to.  But it’s really important, okay?”

Tony’s face still maintained its calm facade but his eyes looked a little pleading.  He wasn’t doing anything to help Ian feel more comfortable.  He really wished he’d taken his jacket off.  He was hot as fuck now.

“Can you tell me what this is about?” he asked, fighting the urge to squirm under Tony’s gaze.  

“I can’t,” came the quick, honest reply, “I can’t lead you in any way.  I need to ask you questions and they need to start off generally.  All you need to do is tell the truth.”

“You make it sound so simple,” he could hear tinctures of bitterness in his voice.

“No man, I don’t think it’s simple and I don’t mean to sound like it is. I think what I’m about to ask you is going to be hard as hell to answer.  But I still need to ask and I really need you to tell us the truth.”

The slight clicking from the cellphone off to his left suddenly stopped.  Glancing over, he saw that the woman in gray had stopped her texting.  She’d even put the phone down and was looking at him with an unreadable expression but probing eyes.  Ian turned back to Tony.  He didn’t need any more pressure.

“Ask.”

Tony nodded.  “Have you ever witnessed a crime?”

Ian could feel the dark, ugly, incredulous burst of laughter as it built in his stomach, ripped up through his guts and flew out of his mouth.  At the head of the table, the Gracy woman quirked an eyebrow.  Tony, on the other hand, stayed still and calm.

“Do you know where I live?” he asked derisively, leveling a contemptuous glare at the cop.  He suddenly didn’t find this room so intimidating any more.  “I know you do ‘cause you grew up there, too.  What kind of a question is that? On what month, or day, or hour?”

“So that’s a yes?” Tony asked dryly.

“It’s a ‘no shit’,” Ian replied.  

“Ian, I need straight answers here, man.”

“Failure to report a felony is not a crime itself, not in this state,” a voice from the end of the table suddenly interjected. “It is in a few states, such as Ohio, but not here.” Ian and Tony both glanced down the table, where the Gracy woman had completely disregarded her phone and was now staring at Ian intently.  He fought the desire to squirm under her assessing stare before turning back to Tony.

“Yes,” he replied in a clipped tone.

Tony nodded, unsurprised.

“Have you ever been the victim of a crime?”

This one hit him harder, but the answer seemed just as obvious.  He stared at Tony again, but the south side detective still looked serious in his question. Had he ever been the victim of a crime? Hell, his own parents had stolen food right out of his and his siblings’ mouths.  He thought most bitterly about the squirrel fund money.  He’d been jumped, had shit stolen, but he’d given as good as he got.  Those were just the unspoken rules of growing up in his neighborhood.  

This here, though, what he was doing now, definitely wasn’t.

“Yes.”

Again, Tony didn’t look surprised.  Neither did Gracy at the end of the table.  Tony’s said she was an ADA.  He guessed she was pretty used to the realities of the poorer Chicago neighborhoods, too.  

“Have you ever been the victim of an assault?”

“Where’s this going?” Ian asked almost immediately, his vulnerability starting to show.  He didn’t want to talk about this shit.

“I can’t tell you,” Tony responded, not unkindly, “This is part of an active investigation and anything I say to you that could be construed as leading the witness could jeopardize that case.  I’m asking you to just answer honestly and trust me that this about helping people you care about.”

“Then tell me who, at least.” Ian could hear his voice starting to rise and anger creeping in around the edges.

Tony held his hands up in a placating motion.  “I can’t do that either.  That would be the worst lead of all.”

“He can tell you it’s not an immediate family member.” Gracy cut in, earning a surprised look from Tony.  They held a brief discussion with their eyes that Ian couldn’t follow before turning back to him.  

“Alright, yeah, it’s not one of your siblings, okay?  And it isn’t Frank.”

Ian fixed his gaze on his hands were they clenched around the edge of the table.  It was cheap particle board, but still nicer than the cold steel of real interrogation rooms.  They were just asking him some questions, right?  But what was this about?  It if wasn’t his family, there were only a few people he really knew much about.  Kev and V and the kids? Maybe, but they stayed out of trouble. Svetlana and Yev were more likely, but still.  He was sure it wasn’t Trevor.  

So that really only left one option.

Milkovichs.

Fuck.

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Yes, I have been the victim of an assault.”

“As a minor, were you ever the victim of an assault by an adult?”

Yeah, Frank.  And...others.

“Yes.”

“As a minor, were you ever the victim of an assault involving a firearm?”

Fuck, he knew where this was going.  

“Is this gonna get other people in trouble?”

“What?” Toy looked confused. 

“Other people.  You said I wouldn’t get in trouble but is this gonna get other people in trouble?”

Tony gave him a long, careful look.  At the end of the table, Gracy leaned back and crossed her arms. 

“Yeah,” Tony replied simply, “It’ll get people in trouble.  But not the people you love.  The people who fucking deserve it.”

The swearing caught Ian off guard.  Tony never cursed.  Ever.  His mom wouldn’t have approved.  But then she wouldn’t have approved of the gay thing either and he’d obviously told her to go screw over that so who knows.  He wasn’t faking it either, wasn’t saying it to score points with Ian.  He had someone in his crosshairs, someone he hated, and he wanted to take him down.  

A knot was forming in Ian’s stomach, tightened by indecision.  He’d been “victimized” by a lot of people over his lifetime, but even so, only one had ever held a gun to him, and that fucker had done it twice, in fact.  And he was definitely someone who could’ve earned Tony’s disdain.  But what the hell could’ve happened?  He knew Terry had been released a little before Christmas, but he’d been back in lock up by halfway through January.  Why would Tony and this Gracy chick suddenly have such a hard-on for the piece of shit patriarch of the Milkovich family?  

Shit, this was what this was about.  People he loved.  Tony was a cop and he was south side and he had good instincts about everything except Fiona.  He’d have known how important those two were to Ian.  How he still thought about them both every day.  He was still in touch with Mandy but they’d drifted a lot this past year.  They had shit to do, trying to make something better out of their lives.  And besides, there was always the elephant in the room when they were together.  Ian hadn’t actually seen Mandy since Thanksgiving.

Right before her dad got out.

Ian was starting to feel a little sick and suddenly he wanted to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth to Tony and this woman in her serious gray suit. This was stuff the detective needed to hear.  Still, though, he was torn.  

It didn’t matter what had happened, nothing made a southsider a punk faster than turning snitch.

No, no, fuck that.  He couldn’t care about that.  There was snitching and then there was coming clean about some truly horrific shit.  He’d lived in the real world long enough now to know how fucked up some of his youthful experiences were, the ones he’d never mentioned, the ones that proved just how much he and his family had normalized chaos and destruction.  

“Yes,” he answered evenly, keeping his eyes fixed on Tony this time.  He could feel his jaw setting defensively but he ignored it and kept his gaze on the cop across the table, who nodded and glanced at his notes.

“Have you ever been forced to witness a sexual assault?”

And there it was.  

“Does he know you’re asking me this shit?”

“He?”

Tony was trying to play it off but Ian could see the slight tightening of his jaw, and the frustration caused him to drop all decorum.

“Don’t fuck with me, Tony.  Not about this.  If you’re going to ask me questions like this than you need to be straight with me.  Does he know you’re asking me about this shit?  Does the mother of his kid know?  Does his sister know?  His brothers?  Fuck!”

“Mr. Gallagher.”

A firm, clear voice cut through his rant, ending him before he got started.  He and Tony turned down the table in unison to meet the unassuming face of Katherine Gracy.  The woman still looked calm and reserved, but her eyes were furious and determined.

“Ian.  May I call you Ian?” she asked in a tone that clearly demonstrated that she didn’t give a fuck if he said yes or not.  “Ian, let me ask you a question, okay?  How would we know what to ask you if he didn’t know what we were asking?”

Ian stared at her.  “Is he here?”

“Who?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Mi…”

“No one is here, Ian.  No one,” she spit out, annoyance written all over her face. “In fact, as far as you’re concerned, I don’t even know who this “he” character is yet.  Detective Markovich and I are just asking you some questions to help further an investigation, okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Ian snapped back, sending a glower down the table to the smartly dressed woman, “Just a few questions about the darkest shit that’s ever happened to me.”

“So that’s a ‘yes’, then?”

“What’s a yes?”

“To the question, Ian.  You have witnessed a sexual assault.”

“Do you really need an answer?”

Her expression softened so quickly that it took Ian aback.  “Yes.  Yes, I do.”

They stared into each other’s eyes for a minute, wary and assessing, before Ian finally closed his eyes and exhaled, praying he was making the right call.

“Yes,” he forced out, unsurprised by the choking timber of his voice.

“Could you describe this event for us, please, Ian?”

“Jesus, fuck, really?”

Tony shifted across from him, taking control of the conversation again.  Ian focused on the table, suddenly unable to meet anyone’s eyes.  That day followed him everywhere, like a badly healed scar, but somehow he’d managed to avoid consciously thinking about it in a long time.  

“Ian, just go step by step, okay.  Simple answers, one at a time.  You say you have been forced to witness a sexual assault.  Was there a firearm involved in that assault?”

Ian swallowed hard.  “Yes.”

“Okay.  Who was in possession of the firearm.”

He could feel his lips curling as they formed the name.  “Terry Milkovich.” he said, fighting the urge to spit.

“He was the owner of the gun?”

“I have no fucking idea.  He had it, though.”

Tony nodded.  “Okay, fair enough.  Alright, Ian, did Terry Milkovich use the gun to assault anyone on the premises.”

There was a turning over in his brain, a poorly constructed wall falling down and all of the sudden he could see Terry wailing on him, screaming nonsense about Mandy like he and Ian both didn’t know what really happened.  But no, there’d been no gun then.  It wasn’t until later, when Terry’d pulled it on him as he ran, that the gun had come into play.

“He pointed it at me.”

“Did he strike you with it?”  This was Gracy again, her voice intense.

“No,” Ian muttered, his voice thickening as tears started to bubble in the corners of his eyes.  “Not me.  He didn’t hit me.”

“Did he hit someone else?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you identify this person by first and last name?”

The tears fell, rolling down his cheeks to his chin, staining his uniform pants with little splotches.  

“Mickey.”

“Full name, Ian,” Tony said quietly, “Please.”

“Mickey...Mikhailo Milkovich.  His son.  Terry pointed the gun at me and then pistol-whipped Mickey.”

“Alright.  Did Terry Milkovich ever indicate his motives for this assault?”

Ian snorted, staring into Tony’s knowing eyes. “Yeah, sure he did.  He caught Mickey and me fucking on his couch.  He wasn’t real happy about having a fucking faggot for a son.”

Tony nodded and Ian could see the understanding on his face, “Okay, Ian, thanks.  Just a few more questions.  Were you able to leave the scene at that time?”

“Leave?” How the fuck could he have left?  Mickey was barely conscious.  He couldn’t even get help.  His phone was in his pants in Mickey’s bedroom.  He hadn’t been able to get to it before Terry pulled the gun on him.

“No, I couldn’t leave.”

“Why not?”

“Because Terry would’ve shot me!”

He could feel the tension rising in the room.  Even Gracy shifted at the end of the table, sharing a quick, concerned glance with Tony.  Ian suddenly became aware of a throbbing in the sides of his hands and realized he’s slammed them onto the table.  

“You alright?” Tony asked carefully.  Ian stayed silent, just rolling his head around on his neck before shooting the cop a glare and a nod. 

“You said a few questions, Detective.  How many more do you have?”

“Ian, I’m not trying to screw with you here.  I have to stick to yes/no questions and then ask you to elaborate on them.  I want this to be a solid case.”

“I can’t fucking believe you want to build a case about this.  Since when does anyone give a shit about Milkovich kids or Russian hookers?”  The bitterness was thick in his voice.

“If they’re the victims of a crime, I care, Ian. I know you’re upset but c’mon. You know I care.”

Letting his eyes fall shut against more frustrated tears, Ian nodded his head slowly.  Tony was right, thought he didn’t particularly want to admit it right now.  The cop had always looked out for the people in his old neighborhood.

Wiping his eyes with the back of his hands, Ian fixed his gaze back across the table.  

“What else?”

“Was anyone else present during this assault?”

“No.  I mean, not then.  But later, yeah.”

“Can you explain further?”

A long breath escaped his chest.  “Terry called a pimp.  Had them send a hooker over.”

“Were you still there when this person arrived?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you identify this person?”

Another breath, this one longer.  “Uh...fuck.  Svetlana Mil...no, Fisher?  Svetlana Fisher.  I don’t know exactly what her name is legally.”

“For our purposes, the name Svetlana Fisher will be fine.” Gracy said thinly, her expression still mostly blank.

Ian could feel the beginnings of a horrible headache.  He leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table and rubbing his temples. “Fine, Svetlana showed up.”

“And?”

“And Terry had her fuck Mickey, okay.  Said she’d fuck the faggot out of him.”

“Did Ms. Fisher ever consent to this act?”

Ian almost rolled his eyes. “I mean, she showed up.  It’s how she made money.”

“But did you ever hear her verbalize consent?”

“Like, say yes?  No.  She didn’t say a word.  Terry told her to fuck Mickey and she did.”

“Did Mickey ever consent?”

“I don’t think Terry gave much of a shit what any of us wanted, okay.”

“So that’s a no?”

“Yeah...I mean no.  I mean, he never said yes.  He was only half conscious so how the fuck is that consent?”

Tony nodded.  “Okay, that’s fair.  Let me ask, did Terry make any threats?”

“Not out loud.  But he’d already beat the shit out of me and Mickey and pulled a gun on us.  When  Svetlana walked in, we were covered in blood and Terry had the gun tucked in his pants.  Then he told her to ride Mickey.  She didn’t fucking argue,”  Ian raised his head, looking hard across the table, “I mean, would you?”

“I can’t answer that,” Tony said evenly, but Ian got his meaning.  They both knew Terry Milkovich too well.  

“Okay, Ian, can we talk about something else?”

He pushed back from the table, leaning into his chair but keeping his eyes averted.  His tension was building.  Grabbing his phone, he shot Lip a text, telling him where he was and to get down here ASAP.  He didn’t trust himself right now.

“Just Lip,” he muttered to Tony, who nodded. “What?  What else?”

Tony looked at him for a moment, his expression careful and assessing.  It made Ian’s nerves flair even more.  Whatever Tony was about to ask, he wasn’t going to like it.

“Ian, has Terry Milkovich ever pulled a weapon on you on other occasions?”

Ian stared at him, goofy faced and shocked for a second.  He still had no idea how Tony knew anything about Mickey and Svetlana but this...this was a whole nother issue.  This was in that shitty dining room, and Terry was cocking a shotgun, and then Mandy... because Terry had…

The pieces suddenly all shifted together, completing the puzzle and then smashing Ian in the face with it.  Mandy!  And Terry had been out, but then back in again and no one knew why.  And fuck…

Fuck.

Ian suddenly felt calm, detached and his hands numbed even as he laid them flat and open on the table.  He shot a careful look down the table at the tailored, polished woman who was now eyeing him uncertainly.  Glancing back, he locked eyes with his neighborhood cop and asked cooly, “Tony, what the fuck did Terry do to Mandy?”

*************************************************************************************

It was dark out and growing steadily colder as Lip Gallagher finally ran up the precinct steps.  He’d been in a meeting and he never left his cell on, respecting the time, but just this once he wished he’d broken his rule.  Ian’s text had him freaked out.  He might’ve said he wasn’t in trouble but Lip needed to see for himself.  Ian’s illness could lie to anyone, Ian most of all.  

He walked up to the intake desk, taking a deep breath to calm his manner and voice.  The cop on duty glanced up, shifting aside a pile of paperwork and watching him carefully as he approached.

“Hi,” he said, straining for a polite tone, “I’m Philip Gallagher.  My brother Ian came in to be interviewed by Detective Tony Markovich.  He asked me to meet him here.”

The cop nodded, seeming nonplussed by the request and Lip forced himself to calm down even more.  He didn’t need to make a scene.  Sue had filled him in.  Ian had come in voluntarily.  He was a respected public servant and he was with an old family friend.  Everything was fine.

Nope, none of this was making him feel any better.

Another cop appeared, a shorter female with a no nonsense expression.  She gestured for him to follow her down the long hallway, towards a door at the end.  She rapped her knuckles against it and pushed it open when a voice echoed from inside.

Lip slipped in, scanning the room.  Tony nodded at him from the end of a long table where he stood next to some steel-faced chick in a suit.  Ian sat just in front of him, leaning back and looking exhausted as their eyes met.  

“You okay?” he asked, falling too easily back into the role of overprotective big brother.  

Ian nodded but his mouth was tight and his eyes furious.  

“What’s this all about?” Lip asked, directing the question to the pair at the head of the table, who were busy shuffling through some files.

“I can’t say much,” Tony started, but Ian interrupted him.

“It’s about what Terry did to Mandy.”

Lip felt himself recoil at the words, but he wasn’t the only one who looked shocked.  Tony and the suit lady both glanced at each other and then over at him.  

“Do you know about this?”  The woman asked, standing up.

Lip felt his south side rising, “Know about what?” he asked cagily, back pedaling.

“They know, Lip,” Ian said, his voice and face strained.  “I told them, okay.  And don’t give me any shit,” Ian’s body seemed to sag in his chair a little and any angry retort Lip might have begun died on his tongue, “It...it happened again.”

Now it was Lip whose body seemed to collapse under him.  He sank into the chair beside his brother.  He felt weak everywhere except his fists, which were balling tightly in his lap as the lady in the gray suit came sweeping towards them.

“Do you know about this too?” she asked sharply, though her face was more considering than angry.

“Who the fuck are you?” Lip retorted, glaring up at her.  She looked like she was about to respond, but Ian beat her to it. 

“She’s an ADA, man.  She’s going after Terry Milkovich.”

Lip kept his eyes on the woman, but his hands loosened a fraction.  “Going after him for what?”

Ian sighed and glanced over at him.  “Everything, man.  Mandy...Mickey...everything.”


	2. Mutiny in the Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mandy's Story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're jumping back in time a bit.
> 
> This is a potentially triggering chapter. Please see the end notes for additional warnings.
> 
> I have done a fair bit of research on Illinois legal requirements for pleas bargains, statutes of limitations, and concurrency of sentencing but my search was limited to the internet and a lot of the sources were a decade old. Things may be different now so I apologize for any inaccuracies.

**December 2018**

Mandy Milkovich didn’t cry.

Generally speaking.  There’d been a few times when she had, especially when she was young, but she’d stamped the instinct out of herself years ago.  Her half-feral swarm of brothers hadn’t been moved by it, but it was her father who’d really driven the point home.  Crying was weak.  Bad enough she was a cunt.  She didn’t have to be a weak cunt, too.

She’d been about eight then...maybe.

So Mandy didn’t cry.  Not usually.  Today though, she was making an exception.  Today she was letting the tears run silently and steadily down the sides of her face without the slightest hesitation.  Maybe her dad hated them, but that was kind of the point.  Why bother to hide them when it wasn’t going to make a difference?  She hadn’t been crying all those hours ago.  It hadn’t mattered.  It hadn’t stopped him.  It hadn’t caused him to show restraint.

There was a rustle next to her, and a calm female voice spoke to her softly.  

“Mandy, I’m going to start the internal exam now.  I’ll explain everything first and then explain each step again as I complete them.  Are you comfortable with that?”

She nodded her head, averting her eyes.  

“Okay,” the woman continued.  “I’m going to ask you to lie down on your back and place your feet in the stirrups.  I’ll put my hands on your knees and that will be the signal to open your legs.  I will take samples with cotton swabs.  It will probably be three, but there may be more.  There will be a little pressure for each one, but let me know immediately if you feel real pain.”  The soft voice paused for a moment, “Are you okay so far?”

She nodded again, shutting her eyes.  

“Okay, alright.  Okay, there will be a pause between each swab so I can package and label them.  After that, I will need to use a comb on your pubic hair and package the results.  I will perform a pelvic exam and record my findings.  Then I will photograph all other documented injuries.  Finally, I’ll take samples from your fingernails.  We’ll provide medical treatment to all injuries afterwards, in order to avoid contamination.  However, once again, please stop me immediately if you are in pain.  If you need medical help more readily, that will take priority, okay?”

Mandy could feel her head nodding a final time, but she felt detached from her body’s actions somehow, like her bones couldn’t support her right.  It was her eyes that took in the sterile walls of the examination room and the shiny silver trays with their instruments but it was someone else who lay back against the cot.  She let her eyes fall shut against the harsh white lights and the harsh bright world.  

*************************************************************************************

She should have just stayed away.  She’d thought about it, letting this be the clean break from her fucked up childhood.  She had a good job now, safe, interesting, with a good benefits.  A chance conversation with an escort client and an opportunity to show off her copywriting skills had landed her a legit office job.  And she’d met Ron there.  A guy who liked her for her brains and work ethic.  A guy who wanted to take her out to lunch, to hear her opinions on shit.

Things had been good.  No reason to screw it up.

But she’d managed to now.

The homeplace had been a mess, of course.  That was the problem.  She hadn’t even been able to blame it properly on her brothers.  Jamie was still locked up, of course, and not due out for over two more years, but Colin and Iggy had both moved out, too.  Colin was getting his shit together, taking advantage of his lack of a real criminal record to land a legit job in the maintenance department at Cook County Hospital.  Iggy lived with him, supporting himself with odd jobs and some supplementals they didn’t really talk about, but he was trying at least.  

The house hadn’t been trashed, but no one was taking care of it, and something had needed to be done.  Mandy wasn’t the biggest fan of her old man, but no one deserved to get released from prison only to come home to squalor. 

So she’d gotten to the house early that morning, a few hours before her dad was due back.  She’d give the place a thorough scrub, making it as livable as possible.  There’d been a time when the place had been almost neat, back when she, Svetlana, and Ian had split the cleaning duties between them, but those days were long gone, just like their little makeshift family. 

It had been pretty filthy, with a thick layer of dust and grime coating every surface.  She’d gotten it pulled together though.  It had seemed the least she could do.  There wasn’t going to be much fanfare for her father’s return this time.  His sons and associates were either locked up or moving on with their lives.  

And she wasn’t about to bring up Mickey.

She’d headed out to the store to grab some milk and basic food for him to cook.  She’d been clueless about the conditions of his parole but if he’d been put on a monitor for the first few weeks, she wouldn’t have been surprised.  He’d need some food to get him through. 

The tension had hit her as soon as she walked back through the door.  It had possessed an oily, cloying quality that immediately made her want to turn around and bolt down the front stairs.  Just get into her jeep and drive away and the hell with Terry Milkovich.  She hadn’t, though. She’s just headed towards the kitchen, eyes straight ahead.  He’d been there, she’d been able to tell.  He’d been somewhere in the house but she hadn’t known where so she’d just gone about the business of putting groceries away and ignored her screaming intuition.

“Dad,” she’d called into the house, listening carefully for a response.  

Down the hallway, she’d heard the distant flush of a toilet, followed by thudding, steady steps across the creaking hallway floor.  

She’d been taken aback when she first saw him.  He’d looked a little older, yes, but that hadn’t really been it.  Somehow, whatever softness he’d possessed seemed to have been stripped away, leaving only the tightly strung, hair-trigger rage that had always been buried under the surface.  Her gut had told her to get out, to just leave and not come back, but again she’d fought it.  Of course the old man looked pissed.  He’d just gotten out of prison.  She could at least cook him some dinner.  

“Where the fuck is everybody?” he’d spit out by way of a greeting.  His brow and eyes had been set in a deep scowl, one with which she was uncomfortably familiar.  Mandy had wanted to back up, to get the table between them, but she’s hesitated.  Retreat was weakness.  

Weakness got your ass kicked.  

Instead, she’d turned back towards the cabinets, glancing over her shoulder with a stiff smile.  “You want a steak?  I can cook one up quick.”  She’d walked over the freezer, adding with forced levity, “The guys are working, I think.”

She’d heard an angry grunt behind her.  “They too good to come see their old man come home?”

She hadn’t answer.  What could she say?  Her brothers weren’t here because they’d had enough self-preservation to stay away.  Everyone else was absent because they were locked up or finally over the shit show that was Terry Milkovich.  

Thankfully, he hadn’t seem to expect a response.  He’d just lumbered into the kitchen, filling up the tiny space with his resentment as he wrenched open the fridge and grabbed a beer.

“This all you got?” he’d muttered, flopping down into a chair and glaring absently into the room.

She’d held her silence.  Held it while she cooked up the steak, while she’d served it up with some A1 and a second beer.  She’d held it while she’d cleared his place after he’d finished, pushing his plate away angrily.  He’d just sat, staring into nothing with burning eyes.

Mandy had immediately decided that it was time to go.

“Dad,” she’d said from the living room as she gathered up her purse, “I’ve got to head back to work.”

“When are you back?” he’d mumbled, still staring at the wall.

“I can swing by tomorrow,” she’d offered, carefully inching backwards.

“Swing by?  The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“I can check in.  See if you need anything.”

“Where the fuck you sleeping?”

She’d exhaled.  “I’ve got my own apartment,” she’d answered, fighting to keep her tone light.  He didn’t move but she could see the tension building from his fingertips to his shoulders.  

“The boys?”

“Iggy and Colin have a place on Hansberry now…”

She hadn’t finished the sentence.  He’d stood up so fast his chair tipped, pounding his fists against the table.

“Fucking ingrate fucks!” He’d roared, pounding his fists twice more and causing the other chair to vibrate and topple over. “They think they can just leave me behind, after everything I’ve done to keep them fed and alive?”  He’d stormed around, looking around him for something he couldn’t seem to find, his movements twitchy and erratic.  

Yeah, she should’ve just left.  Or never come.  But still, she hadn’t.  True, Terry had regularly fucked up all five of her brothers but he really hadn’t ever beat her too badly.  So instead, she’d turned, walked back into the kitchen, picked up the chair.

She’d never seen the hit coming.

Consciousness had been fleeting after that, her head ringing and her vision blurring as she curled in on herself, trying to protect her face and stomach from the kicks and stomps he’d rained down.  His ranting voice vibrated in her skull, pulsing more painfully than a lot of the blows.

“Fucking piece of shit ingrate kids!”

_ Kick _

“Pick up and leave me with nothing but this fucking cunt.”

_ Kick _

“And that’s all you are, a fucking cunt!”

_ Stomp _

“And cunts are only good for one thing.”

*************************************************************************************

Afterwards, she’d run.  Finally.  

And she hadn’t looked back.

Her hands had been shaking terribly and she hadn’t been able to get the keys in the jeep ignition right away.  She’d pulled out onto South Trumbull without even looking, chancing oncoming traffic in her bid to put distance between herself and that house and that man who was  _ not _ her father, not anyone’s father , not worth the air it took to say the word.

She hadn’t stopped driving for hours.  

At first, her reaction had been shock, pure and ugly.  She couldn’t find words to express feelings or form full thoughts.  Her whole mind was devoted to screaming wordlessly inside her head.  

Panic came next. Words formed but they were sludgy and incomplete.  They hadn’t made full ideas but they all centered around one continuous sentiment.  

No. 

NONONONONONONONO.

Real thoughts returned gradually, memories, recriminations followed by recriminations of the recriminations.  I shouldn’t have...but he can’t...if only I’d...fuck that, how could he…  They’d spiraled around in her head, creating whirlpools threatening to suck her down.

And on she’d driven, also in circles, with no destination in sight.

Indecisiveness had come next.

She’d been driving forever.  The sun was down and her gas light had blinked on.  She couldn’t keep going.  

Pulling the jeep over, she’d jumped out and started filling up the tank.  She’d thought she would feel fear, vulnerability in the open space, but instead a deep numbness had suffused her.  Finishing up, she’d pulled the jeep into a parking space and leaned back against the seat.

Now what?

She had supposed she could just go home.  Shower, change clothes, cook some dinner.   Ignore it.  She’d done it before.  Even after Lip and Ian had found out the truth, even after the abortion.  She’d just pretended nothing had happened.  

No.

No, no, no, no.  Screw that.  She’d made excuses for him for too long.  Once, when she’d been stuck living in that house, in that world where you never told anyone anything, where you kept your own horrible problems to yourself, she’d excused it.  She might have told Ian that it was because she wouldn’t let people judge her, but that was bullshit.  She didn’t want to admit it because admitting that Terry, that her own fucking father, could do that to his kid...was just too...she couldn’t…

But she could, now.  She could.  There’d been a time when she’d thought she didn’t deserve any better than the shitty life she’d landed in, but that was over.  She’d proven her abilities.  She’d taken risks and found rewards in her career and in her relationships.  There were people around her who valued her.  She could start valuing herself too.

Grabbing her phone, she’d pulled up Maps and searched for the nearest hospital.  

She’d thought about calling someone.  Ron?  Maybe.  She’d felt really sure that he’d come, which was a new and warm feeling for her.  But no.  Not him.  She didn’t want that sparkling new relationship touched by all this shit yet.

Her brothers were out of the question.  They didn’t even know about what Terry had done to her in the past.  And of course, this was snitching.  Milkovichs didn’t snitch.  Iggy and Colin would probably kill Terry and burn his body over this, landing both their asses in jail for life in the process, but they wouldn’t snitch.  

And Mickey wasn’t here.

She’d continued to drive, taking a left and then another left as she navigated one way streets with a single destination.  Her mind had run wildly to the Gallaghers.  Ian would come with her if she called him, she knew this for sure.  They’d drifted apart recently, with Mandy’s loyalties torn between her best friend and her brother, but she knew that if she’d called him, he’d have been there in a second.  He’d proved that before.  And Lip would come, too.  Hell, even Debbie.  It might be peripheral, but she knew she was tied into the Gallagher clan and they’d protect her if she needed it.  

She’d been at a red light, staring at Ian’s contact in her phone.  But again, no.  No.  Somehow, knowing she didn’t have to do it on her own had made her realize that she could.  She could pull into the emergency room parking garage, take her ticket, and find a spot.  She could go up the elevator, walk up to the security desk, and give her ID.  She could sit on the hard plastic chair and wait to be called.  She could walk up to the triage station and sit down in front of the nurse.

She could say, “ I was raped.  I need help.”

*****************************************************************************************

A cop arrived at the hospital while the nurse was processing the kit, a nice woman in plain clothes who identified herself as Elaine Balakoff.  She asked a lot of questions that made Mandy’s stomach turn, but she answered them as best she could.  It lasted for hours, and they finished their discussion in a conference room after the the exam had finally ended and the doctor had treated her cut lip and cheek and the vaginal abrasions.  

Balakoff gave Mandy her card and followed her home, making sure that the little apartment was clear and safe before leaving.  She said she was going to speak to Terry’s parole officer in the morning to see about getting him revoked immediately, based on the evidence. She was also going to start working on a search warrant for the property.  The cop fretted for a moment, worried that Terry might have a chance to clean things up before the investigation could commence, but Mandy laughed bitterly and told her not to worry.  

Terry Milkovich did not clean up his messes.  One, he didn’t give a fuck.  Two, he wouldn’t believe for a second that his daughter would ever turn him in.

Balakoff smiled at that. 

Once the cop was gone, she finally showered.

She called Ron.

He came over immediately and held her.

Mandy Milkovich breathed easily and went to sleep.

She considered calling out from work the next day but decided against it.  She needed her routine and the safe familiarity of her work space.  She needed to feel competent and productive.  Flinging herself into editing her boss’ presentation had kept her mind focused and away from things she didn’t need to think about right now.  

Her work phone rang around three that afternoon.  It was Balakoff, calling with good news.  She and Terry’s parole officer had paid a visit to the property that morning.  The dining room had looked exactly as Mandy had described, including smears of her blood dried to the floor.  Confronted with this, it hadn’t taken five minutes to get Terry to start yelling about how he had hit her.  “Taught her a lesson,” was how he’d put it, but it was plenty to get him thrown back in.  

“A search warrant is in the works,” the cop had explained, “Under no circumstances should you go near that house.”

Mandy snorted and told her not to worry.

It was three days later that she came home to find a man sitting on her porch stairs.  It was a different cop this time, but this one she knew well.

“Mandy.” he’d said politely as he stood up and took a step back onto the path.  

“Tony,” she acknowledged back, eyeing him carefully.

He held up his hands. “I’m here to ask you some questions about Terry, okay?  Your case has been handed off to me by Elaine Balakoff because of the nature of the charges we want to pursue against him.”

“You’re on my case now,” she asked incredulously.  Fucking Tony Markovich?  “You’re a fucking beat cop.  Balakoff made me believe they were taking this seriously!”

“They are, Mandy.  Believe me, they are,” he’d answered immediately. “That’s why I’m here.  I was promoted a while ago.  There’s a shortage of detectives and my experience with our old neighborhood makes me a good resource.  That’s what this is about, okay.  The DA’s office has a huge file on Terry that he can’t get to stick.  Your dad has always been into some serious shit, Mands.  You know this.” He paused to look at her and she gave him a weak nod.  She knew.

“Okay, so we get Terry a lot, but it’s always for small shit.  He’s in and out because of overcrowding and because his charges are always minor.”

“Rape isn’t minor.”  

“No, no it isn’t.  And because you reported it right away, we’ve got a really good chance of building a strong case against him, okay.  A really good chance.  We could put him away for fifteen years over this.  But personally, Mandy, that’s not long enough for me.  I want him gone for good.  He’s a vicious, abusive thug.  I’m sorry  if it’s hard for you to sort through your feelings for him but…”

“Oh, hell no,” Mandy interjected, “No, don’t even start with that.  No one wants him locked up for ever more than me.”  She turned away for a second, staring up at the few stars that were visible in the sky.  It was true, she realized.  She wanted him gone forever.  “What do you need from me?”

“Information,” 

She exhaled and walked towards the steps.  “If it’s the kind I think you’re looking for, you’re asking the wrong person.  I don’t know much about his business at all.  None of us do.  He used my brothers as work horses when they were younger but they really don’t know much either.”

Tony listened carefully, rubbing his hands together absently as he did.

“Do you want to come inside,”Mandy asked, suddenly realizing that the temperature was well below freezing and that the cop had been out here for a while.

They settled around her little dining room table, with Tony still deep in thought.  

“The thing is,” he explained. “He’s done some serious stuff, but we only get him for little things, and typically only one thing at a time.  The way to do this is to wrack up smaller sentences at the same time by charging a number of felonies all together.  It’s a shock and awe approach.  It’s hard to believe in someone’s innocence when the cops and DA have the ability to charge them with so much.  Juries figure the person has to have done something.”

“Sounds kind of shady, actually,” Mandy muttered.  

“Well, we don’t use that approach much.  Can’t overdo it or it loses it’s effectiveness.  We use it against people we need to keep off the street.  Your dad qualifies.”

“I’m not criticizing, okay.  I need him gone.  He’s going to want to kill me for this.”  She pushed back from the table and walked into the little kitchen.  “Do you want something to drink?” she asked, giving herself a second to hide from the discussion.

Tony looked at her carefully before nodding his head.  “Water would be nice,” he said.  

Mandy turned away towards her cabinets, rummaging for a glass, taking extra time to add ice and filter water.  When she turned back, Tony’s expression was still assessing.  

“What is it,” he asked, “I’m not trying to push here but I need something to work with if we’re going to get him off the streets.  You’re thinking about something. Tell me.  Please.”

The deep breath she drew in stretched over several seconds.  She let it linger in her chest for a moment, then exhaled at the same steady pace.  She didn’t want to talk about these things.  In fact, she’d vowed to forget them, up until Terry Milkovich had proven once and for all that he’d never change, never stop inflicting pain on his children.

She stared back at Tony, considering him in return.  He’d grown up stable and supported, that she knew.  Still, though, he’d navigated the same streets she had.  He knew their world.  And he’d always been the straight-arrow, do-gooder type.  When he said he wanted to get Terry off the streets to protect the community, he meant it.  

“Alright,” she relented carefully, playing idly with her own water glass, “You need additional charges.” Her hands curled around the glass, tightening fractionally as she spoke, “This...this wasn’t the first time Terry has...done that.”

“He’s assaulted you before?”

She paused.  Breathed.  “Yes.”

“When?”

She breathed again.  “The last time was a few years ago.”

“I’m sorry but I need a more specific time.

“Four years ago.”

Now it was Tony’s turn to breath out slowly.  “Is there any evidence of this.” 

“Not that I kept,” she answered quickly, a touch of hysterical giddiness leaking into her voice.  Tony’s expression changed to concern but he said nothing as she giggled and her eyes welled with tears.

“Ian Gallagher can back me up on this.  He knows all about it.  He helped me take care of the problem.”

“Problem?”

“He got me pregnant.”

“Terry?” Tony’s professionalism wavered under this fresh horror but Mandy only snorted.

“Yup.”

It took the cop a minute to consider this information.  

“And Ian knows about this?”

“Ian knows about all sorts of shit.  But yeah.  Terry tried to blame him for knocking me up.  He tried to shoot him.”

Sitting at her dining room table, Tony seemed a little shell-shocked.  She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised.  Sometimes it was hard for people who hadn’t been raised in a war zone to understand the type of chaos and abuse that had comprised her childhood.

“Okay, this helps.  It’s something we can look in to.” He stared across the table, indecisiveness written across his face.  “Can you possibly think of anything else?”

She leaned back in her chair again, and this time she let the awkward silence hang between them for several minutes.  “I’m not sure.” she said finally.

“Not sure about what.” he asked.

“A few things, actually. First, I’m not sure exactly what the story is.  I’ve pieced it together from little things they’ve let slip over the years, but I don’t know the whole truth.” She let her fingers slide over the formica tabletop for a moment,  “I have some suspicions though, and they’re really fucked up.  But also, I don’t know how much this is worth to you.”

Now it was Tony’s turn to lean back in his chair. “Explain.”

“It has to do with Mickey.”

Mandy wasn’t sure what she expected from Tony, but an amused snort of laughter wasn’t it.  “Your brother who’s on the run?  Of course it does.  What did Terry do to Mickey?”

Mandy was a little taken aback by that. “What makes you think that?”

“Oh, c’mon now. Everyone knows how Terry responded when Mickey told him he was gay.  Threatened to kill him.  That isn’t what you’re talking about, is it?”

“No,” Mandy explained, staring into the water in her glass.  Her eyes looked a little haunted.  Tony shut up quickly.

“I don’t know exactly what happened.  I’ve never asked any of them, okay.  And everything I’m telling you is after the fact because I didn’t even know they were together at first.  I didn’t even realize Mickey was gay.  But I can tell you that Ian and Mickey were together, for a long time. Then, one day, Mickey was beaten up, badly.  Terry had really hurt him, pistol-whipped him, gave him a concussion.  We weren’t sure his eye was going to be okay for awhile.  Then, all of the sudden, he’s marrying Svetlana, who’s pregnant with his kid. No explanation.  Ian runs off to join the army, goes AWOL, and Mickey runs away with him again.  He doesn’t even want anything to do with his wife or his kid.  Because Mickey’s gay and he was with Ian.  They wanted to be together. But for some reason, he still married Svetlana.  My dad insisted on it, because she was pregnant, even though he’s never given a shit about that kind of thing before.  I mean, hell, we’re not even sure if he ever married our mom.” she let herself pause for a moment, avoiding bad memories.  

“The point is, something had to have triggered this.  I was completely oblivious for a long time, but when I started thinking back, I realized that something had to have happened.  When Mickey announced his was gay to my whole family that night at the Alibi, it wasn’t the first time my father learned that.  I’d stake my life on that.  Something...something else happened.  Something really bad.  I don’t know what, though.”

“So I need to ask Ian?”

“Yeah.  But you really need to ask Mickey.”

Tony shot her a look, “Perfect.  And you know where to find him?  Don’t answer that,” he continued quickly when Mandy opened her mouth.  His appraising look was back.

“You think there’s something worth knowing that Mickey could tell me.” he stated, no question in his voice.

“I do.”

He nodded, “You’re hoping we can strike a deal with your brother for this info, aren’t you?”

“I hope so,” she replied simply.

Tony just shook his head. “It’s not that easy.  He’s been found guilty and sentenced for a serious crime.  He busted out of prison.  The DA isn’t going to be inclined to just let him walk away from that.”

Mandy nodded.  “I think the DA is going to have to decide who he wants to lock up more.  A low-level hood who was systematically abused by his sociopathic father and accidentally almost killed a horrible person, or Terry fucking Milkovich.”

“Alright,” Tony acknowledge, “but before we start, um, trying to locate your brother,” he paused here and gave Mandy a pointed look.  She stared back evenly.  Glad they understood each other, he continued, “we’ll need some other information to take to the DA.” He drummed his fingers on the table top for a moment, deep in thought.  “Who else would know about what happened?”

Mandy sighed again, her expression wry and with a hint of distaste.  “I guess the best person would have to be my ex-sister-in-law.”

“You mean Svetlana?  Where is she living now?”

Leaning forward, Mandy braced her elbows on the table and rubbed at her temples.  “That’s kind of a long story.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains the lead up to an incestuous rape, though the assault itself is not included. It also contains a description of a rape exam from the perspective of the victim (the exam is administered respectfully).  
> There are also references made to canon compliant non-con scenes.


	3. Mirror Stares Back Hard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Chicago, Mandy reaches out to Svetlana.  
> Down south, Mickey considers his options.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mickey might seem OOC here and in a few of the subsequent chapters. That won't last forever but Mickey will be in a very low place for awhile and his characterization is intended to support that.
> 
> See end notes for possible trigger warnings. 
> 
> We'll get some Ian/Mickey face time during the next chapter, now that the scene has been set.

**December 2018**

Mandy had stared at the heavy wooden door for about three minutes before she finally took a resolute breath and pulled it open.  It creaked and stuck on its hinges and she grabbed the edge with her second hand, yanking it all the way open.  The entryway of the Alibi seemed as reluctant to grant her passage as she was to gain entrance, but that was just too bad.  The stakes were too high.  

It was always dark in the bar’s interior and the glare of the sun that cast a rectangular sheen around her only highlighted the difference.  Mandy squinted, giving her eyes a second to adjust to the changing light before she let the door fall closed behind her.

At first, she thought the room was empty, but she quickly spotted Yev sitting at the far end of the bar, coloring attentively.  He glanced up as she walked in, smiling brightly and waving before returning to his crayons.  

His mom didn’t appear to be anywhere in sight.  

Wandering her way up the bar, she slid into a seat next to the little boy and blew a raspberry on his cheek.

“How have you been, little guy?” she asked.

“Good,” he said genuinely.  “I drew snowmen.”

Mandy cooed over each drawing in her nephew’s considerable pile while he preened under the attention.  She was still lost in the moment when her ex-maybe-sister-in-law walked back into the room, lugging a case of beer.  

“You need help?”

The other woman just shook her head, hoisting the box up onto the counter and leaning against it to catch her breath.

“I handle my own problems,” she said, giving Mandy a pointed stare.  The hidden message wasn’t lost on its audience, but Mandy wasn’t about to be deterred.  

“This is more than just a problem and you fucking know it,” she whispered furiously, glancing down at Yev next to her.  The little boy was practically immune to profanity though, and he simply colored on.  

Svetlana’s mouth twisted into a nasty smirk and she drifted down the far end of the bar.  Mandy knew her better than she realized though.  She’d seen how that the indifference hadn’t reached the Russian’s eyes and how her shoulders seemed to bow under invisible pressure.  Sarcasm, disdain, and artistic levels of bitchiness were Svetlana’s fiercest weapons.  If she wanted to get some help, Mandy was going to have to take a few wounds from them.

The air was still biting as she followed the other woman out into the cold and leaned against the side of the old bar next to her.  They both sad nothing for a few minutes and Mandy let Svetlana attack a cigarette like it had personally offended her while she  readied her thoughts.

“You think you are special,” she finally said in a voice rife with aggression, “You think you are  unique?  My father sold me to strangers, let them fuck me for money.  You survived.  I survived.  What is problem?”

Mandy felt a rage fill her chest at the callousness of the words but she caught herself before she let her emotions explode.  Weapons, she thought, that’s what these words are, protecting the other woman from a reality she often couldn’t bare to think about.  Mandy had dealt with legitimate misery in her life, but Svetlana had been forced to reckon with real horror.

“So, so if they pay for it, it isn’t a problem,” she asked, letting her own aggression bleed into her voice in as calculated a fashion as possible.  She wouldn’t win Svetlana over with kindness.  She needed to knock the other woman off her game a little.  Based on the look the Russian shot her way, it was working.  

“As I say,” she snapped, “We survived.”

“Yeah, I don’t believe that,” Mandy interjected quickly.  “If it was all about survival, why keep the baby?  Why marry Mickey?”  The other woman was staring hard across the street with her jaw tensed but Mandy just persisted. “You didn’t just want to survive.  You wanted something better.”

Svetlana shot her a furious look.  “You fucking Americans.  You, your brother, no different.  We could have helped each other.  Built a life.  But he wants love.  You want love.  Safety is not enough.” she pushed off the wall and strode to the edge of the sidewalk, putting Mandy behind her.  “Love is dangerous.  It makes you weak.”

A sharp wind blew down the street, kicking up some of the snow as it went.  It struck Mandy on the side, causing her to flinch away.  The words made her flinch, too.  There was a lot truth in them, especially if you loved the wrong people for the wrong reasons.  

But if you loved the right person…

“I’m sorry about what happened with Kev and Vee.”

“Why sorry?  They are foolish.  I am smarter with money.  They did not listen.”

The flippant answer came quickly but Mandy didn’t miss the sharp tensing of the other woman’s shoulders.  

“Did you love them?”

“It does not matter.”

“You love Yevgeny, though.”

“Do not try to use my boy.”

Svetlana had turned back towards her as she spoke and her eyes burned furiously.  Mandy nodded calmly, still leaning against the bar wall.

“I’m not using him.  I’m being honest with you and I think you know that.  I told you on the phone that I needed to get Terry put away for life.  It’s the only way to keep everyone safe.  He should be gone for fifteen years for what he did to me, but that isn’t forever.  And Terry has always been possessive of his family.  Not in an affectionate way, but because he thinks he owns us.  He’s used me, used my brothers to do awful stuff.  

He’ll do it to Yev, too, if he’s given the chance.  And I know it might seem like I’m saying that to get you on my side, but you know it’s the truth.  I mean, think about how fixated he was on you getting married, on having that baby?  As far as he’s concerned, Yev is his property, too.”  She paused here, pushing off the wall and taking a step forward, “I think you know just how far Terry is willing to go when it comes to keeping his own family in line.  I think you’ve seen it before.”

There was a long beat of silence.

“That thing?  That is what you want to know?”

“I want to know what happened.  I know something did.  I know it involved Ian and Mickey and you.  I really want you to report it to the cops but right now I’ll just settle for finally knowing the truth.”  She took another step forward.  “Please tell me.  It’s like this horrible secret and it’s at the root of so much shit in our lives.  I just…” she let herself fall back against the wall again, closing her eyes in frustration.  “I just need to know.”

For several minutes, there was no sound except for the endlessly blowing wind.  She waited, feeling a deep-seated exhaustion creeping upon her, a weariness that seemed to permeate her very bones.  Dammit, she didn’t have time to be this tired, but it was sucking her down anyway.

“Fine.”

She opened her eyes.

“What?”

Sveltana was standing right in front of her, her face still fixed in its indifferent mask.  Her eyes, though, were cold, determined in a way that Mandy had seen before.  Mandy had never particularly liked Svetlana but she recognized that the woman possessed a gritty resolve that had kept her alive and helped her build some kind of life.  

“I tell you,” she spit out, her accent deepening as she spoke.  “I tell you the story.  Then you know.  But you may wish you had not asked.”

“I don’t want to ask.  I don’t want to know.  What I want is for it all to never have happened.  To any of us,” she replied, pushing off the wall again, “But it did happen.  It happened to me too many times and I’m not letting it happen anymore.  Don’t you want to say that? Don’t you want to stop just ‘surviving’ and make a better life for yourself?  For Yev?  Because I know you don’t want to talk to me or the cops but if you do, we might really be able to get rid of him, and that will make all of us safer and put all of us in a better position to really pursue a better life.”

Svetlana’s eyes rolled as she muttered, “You fucking Americans and your optimism,” but Mandy could see her resolve.

“You’re living in America now.  Maybe it’s time for you to grow some fucking optimism,” she answered.  

They looked at each other carefully for a moment, considering each other’s words.  

“I must talk to cops?”

“Do you want Terry off the streets and out of your kid’s life forever?”

Svetlana stared hard at the ground in front of her feet.  When she finally moved, it was sudden, wrenching open the heavy door like it weighed nothing.

“Yes,” she said, clearly and calmly, as she stared into the dark bar.  She rolled her eyes again at Mandy’s quizzical expression.  “Yes, I want him gone.  Yes, I will tell story to you, to cops.  You come in now.”  

Mandy grabbed the door and followed the other woman into the bar.  She wasn’t sure, but she thought the strange tremor in her stomach was relief.

*************************************************************************************

**January 2018**

There was a balcony outside of his tiny apartment.  Mickey hadn’t really given the little ledge much thought when he’d first found his living space but it had become a small solace to him over the past ten months.  He sat out there now, lounging back in the cheap wicker chair he’d scrounged, staring out over the street below as the smoke from his cigarette curled up into the blue sky.  

This city was beautiful and he liked looking at it.  He’d had no intention of going any farther than Mexico initially but misery and loneliness had driven him to head further southward, putting more and more distance between himself and the pulsing wound that was Chicago and the people who lived in it.  

Especially one.

It had taken him less than three days to cross over into Guatemala and he hadn’t stopped there.  He’d hardly been out of the south side before this little road trip, but he’d driven through nine countries before he’d finally felt he could stop.  He’d entered the capital of Argentina, on the opposite side of the equator from a certain fucking redhead, and finally called a halt. 

He hadn’t left the confines of Buenos Aires since then.  A fairly lengthy search in an internet cafe had shown that the country a pretty simple work visa system and a large sector of labor-based economy.  He had the fake documentation he’d used to get him through the border check but it wasn’t hard to make some contacts and get new papers drawn up, effectively severing him from any trail he’d left on the way down.  

So here he was.  

It was warm out on his little balcony, about 80 degrees and warmer than that in the sun.  The temperatures down here were still screwing with his head.  He was used to frigid cold in January but his world was now flip flopped and summer was in full swing in Argentina.  It was weird but he could get used to it. He could get used to a lot of things, in fact.  He liked this city, truth be told.  It had a calmer, more peaceful atmosphere than any part of Chicago he’d ever encountered.  He’d found a job working as an apprentice handyman for Junot, an old guy who fixed up the cheap apartments in La Boca, the port neighborhood.  The dude was half deaf and all crazy but he was good natured and didn’t seem to mind any of Mickey’s quirks.  He was patient too, a trait Mickey had never really experienced in a male authority figure.  Junot spoke only broken English and whip fast Spanish and he laughed his head off at Mickey all the time without ever explaining why, but the dude never yelled when Mickey screwed up, never lost his shit over Mickey’s mistakes.  Junot was much like the rest of this new world; slower, less complicated. 

He needed less complication in his life.  

But that wasn’t in his cards, of course, because just when things were getting settled, just when he was thinking that he might be able to make some kind of home for himself in this strange new place, his old world had to show up and blow it straight to shit.  

He could still hear the fear in his little sister’s voice through the phone, only barely hidden under a veneer of calm.  He could still hear the tremors as she’d unloaded all kinds of hard truths on him while he was thousands of miles away and helpless to do anything about them.  

He’d always known that Terry Milkovich was a piece of shit, but he’d still recognized the man as his father.  That small bit of respect was what had kept him from really fighting back for all those years.  He’d walked away from Ian and agreed to marry Svetlana because in the end, Terry was his father and whatever twisted moral code Mickey possessed, it had forced him to sit back and take whatever the sick bastard meted out to him.  

It had been four weeks later, four weeks after Terry had found him with Ian and beaten him half to death.  Four weeks after Terry had pulled a gun on Ian for what Mickey had thought was the first time.  His injuries had been bad, especially his eye and head, and while the socket was finally starting to heal up, his headaches were still regular and nauseating.  

He’d been lying in his bed with his eyes closed to combat the vertigo that he was still suffering from weeks later.  He hadn’t remembered his door flying open or anything but suddenly Terry was there, straddling his waist and pinning his arms down.  He’d struggled but Terry had gravity and injury on his side.  Mickey hadn’t exactly been hard to subdue.  

Terry hadn’t looked angry.  Not even a little bit.   He’d actually looked perfectly calm as he’d pressed the barrel of his gun against his youngest son’s lips and told him to open up.  The calm was what had unnerved Mickey so deeply.  It’s what had caused him to open his mouth without a fight, grimacing and swallowing his terror as the metal barrel was fed further into his throat.  Terry had never wavered, never showed the slightest cracks in that calm as he informed his son that the hooker he’d been forced to fuck was knocked up with his kid and that he’d be marrying her. 

The calm had remained as Terry climbed off of him and settled onto the couch across from his bed and inclined his head towards the door.  It had only been then that Mickey had seen Svetlana in the doorway, staring down at the floor, stiff and carefully expressionless.  She hadn’t argued.  She’d just stripped off their clothes and gotten to work on him as he’d stared numbly into the darkness behind his eyelids.  The only clear memory Mickey had of the rest of that long afternoon was Svetlana leaning down and whispering “He still has the gun.  Do not fight.”

His father had watched the whole thing, wordless and freakishly serene on the couch.  Mickey had thought that was fucked up as hell but he’d also assumed it was a one off thing, rooted in his father’s intense homophobia and his need to properly supervise Mickey’s “conversion”.  

But now, after Mandy had told him what the sick fuck had been doing to her for years, he’d suddenly had to rethink all of it.

He’d been furious when Mandy had first told him and a large chunk of that rage had been directed at Mandy herself.  For a second, all he could think was that if she’d told him, he’d have taken Terry out, probably with his brothers’ help.  With Terry dead, he wouldn’t have been caught with Ian, wouldn’t have been beaten and forced to knock up some hooker he didn’t know or want.  The rest of his family hadn’t given a shit who he fucked or who he let fuck him, so he never would’ve pushed Ian away.  The army and going AWOL and the whole thing with Yev.  Fuck, the whole thing with Sammi would never even have happened if…

He’d gotten it under control pretty quick though, because this shit was not on Mandy.  Sure, if she’d told him, he’d have taken care of Terry, but if their piece of shit father had never laid a goddamned finger on his own daughter, there would have been nothing to tell in the first place.  No, this landed squarely at Terry’s feet, like so much else in their fucked up lives.  

Suddenly, he had a chance, a real opportunity to pay the sick fuck back.  Glancing down at the little wicker table that he’d scavenged along with the chair, he examined the phone number he’d scribbled on a scrap of paper at Mandy’s insistence..   _ Katherine Gracy, ADA. _

They wanted him to come back, Mandy had said.  Svetlana had made a formal statement to the cops, a month shy of the reporting deadline for the Illinois statute of limitations.  Mickey couldn’t figure how Mandy had managed to talk her into that.  No one was more leery of the cops than Svet.  She’d talked to them, though. Mandy, too.  

Now it was his turn, and if what Mandy was saying was true, this ADA chick was willing to ante up if it meant getting a real shot at locking Terry away.  Mickey’d always known his dad was scum but he’d never realized just how much of a grudge the city of Chicago and the state of Illinois held against the old man.  If Katherine Gracy had her way, Terry would never walk free another day in his life.  For that to happen, though, she really needed Mickey’s testimony and she was willing to offer pretty much anything to secure it.  Even if that meant wiping away a fifteen year prison sentence and burying any additional charges.

Mickey felt an errant drop of sweat roll down the side of his face, not sure if it was from the heat or the unwanted decisions he needed to make.  He wasn’t sure this offer was even real but he leaned towards trusting it.  They weren’t after him.  This would’ve been way too much effort for what he was worth.  

The real question was, did he want to get involved with this?  He slouched further down in his chair, exhaling smoke in a cloud.  He watched it drift away against the deep blue of the sky and then let his eyes fall closed.  There really wasn’t much of a choice in this for him.  This was huge.  Mandy had turned Terry in to the cops, the cardinal sin of the Milkovich clan.  Mickey didn’t blame her, not over something like this, but Terry would never be so reflective.  He wouldn’t just want to hurt her over an offense of this magnitude.

So really, this choice was just an illusion.  He’d never run the risk of Terry getting out, of Mandy and Yev and Svetlana being left vulnerable to that fucking lunatic.  He knew they were tough and resourceful but Terry was an unstoppable force.  If they were ever going to get rid of the bastard, it would need to be a group effort.  

He was going to have to go back.

The realization made him feel ill.

The darkness behind his eyelids suddenly seemed like a welcoming place to stay.  He didn’t want to think.  He didn’t want to move.  He just wanted to let the soul-deep exhaustion that was currently weighing him down to pull him under.  The tiny balcony outside of his little apartment was warm and safe, and that was the real problem.  Warm and safe places only served as a reminder of the things he couldn’t keep, once they been ripped away.  

He’d give this Gracy chick a call and hear her out.  He’d listen to her plans, make the necessary arrangements, surrender himself to the proper authorities.  Maybe they’d just throw him back in.  Maybe not.  He was starting to realize that what happened to him didn’t much matter anymore.  

He was starting to realize that he was done.  He’d been fighting hard for his entire life and he’d never backed down from that fight.  He couldn’t keep it up forever though.  If you never paused and never rested, eventually your body would just kind of quit on its own.  So he’d go back, yeah.  He’d give this one last push, but after that, he was done.  If they threw him back inside, so be it.  If not, he’d cobble together some type of existence and just wait this thing out.  He could handle just existing.  The danger was in his repeated attempts to build some type of real life.

He had to go back and he had to let go of his ridiculous expectations and hopes.  He had to stop trying to pull himself up when the whole damned world seemed to want him in the dirt.  Years ago, he’d told Ian that he was fucked for life.  He’d know it then, embraced it then, but things had happened that had made him forget that stark reality.  Not anymore.  This new place might have held some real possibility but he knew with absolute certainty that whatever happened after he left, he wouldn’t be coming back here.  Chicago would suck him in and chew him up again.  It would never let him go.

And he was done.  He was tired of trying to win against his old world.  It was finally time to start settling for a draw instead.  

Reaching down, he picked up the scrap up paper and entered the number into his contacts.  He stared at the electronic numerals on the screen until his stomach settled a little. 

Then he hit call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains brief and non-specific references to a non-con scene that builds on a canon-compliant non-con scene.


	4. Reaching Out Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian and Mandy have a necessary conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the update delay. I've been given a great opportunity to get some paid work experience as a part of my internship, so that is necessarily taking priority for me right now. It should wrap up in about a week and then it's summer and I can put some more time into regular updates. In the meantime, please enjoy.

**Early April 2019**

 

Ian stared through the plate glass windows of  _ Patsy’s _ , scanning the patrons inside warily. His eyes alighted on a familiar profile and he ducked out of sight.  Leaning back for a moment, he closed his eyes and shook his head, feeling equal parts disgusted with his own stupid behavior and frustrated at his lunch date.  His emotions were all over the place; not manic but in a completely vulnerable, utterly human way that made him feel even more out of control.  

At least with his mania, he understood the cause and the steps to take to find relief.  Everything about his current circumstances seemed completely out of his sphere of influence. He’d been thrust into this situation, right into the center of it, but he was still completely in the dark about so much.  Gracy seemed to keep everything on a need-to-know basis and he and Tony kept missing each other, their mutually hectic work lives taking priority.  He’d finally heard back from Mandy, though.  

Finally.

He gave himself the luxury of a minute to collect his thoughts, then pushed himself off the exterior wall and strowed towards the door.  He couldn’t hide from this.  He needed to talk to Mandy and there was no point trying to postpone it.  

He had some questions he needed to ask her.  

The diner was filled with the typical noise; the clatter of plates and cutlery, the chatter of patrons as it echoed off the walls and high ceiling.  This was typically a safe place for Ian, comfortable and familiar, but today it felt manic, too.  He gritted his teeth against the sensory overload but continued forward, keeping his eye on a head of long brunette hair with tasteful blond highlights.  He could make out the tense set of her shoulders even under the heavy sweater she wore to ward off the damp April chill.  He let his footsteps slow, giving himself one extra second to get his thoughts in order before his slid into the booth across from her.

They took each other in for a moment, two sets of wary eyes meeting across a formica battleground.  Ian felt his stomach clench.  This wasn’t them.  They’d always been straight with each other, ever since he’d confessed his deepest secret to her and she’d agreed to help him keep it.  They’d had each other’s backs for years.  They’d been able to tell each other everything.  Now, as he stared across the table, he suddenly had a terrible thought.

Was this it?  After all that they’d been through together, was this going to be the thing that broke his friendship with Mandy Milkovich?

Ian could tell that Mandy was worried, too.  Under the surface circumspection of her gaze, he could make out glimmers of fear, despair, even guilt.  It caused his stomach to seize again, but from a different emotion this time. Staring at Mandy’s miserable face, he suddenly felt a rush of determination trump every other conflicting emotion he was feeling.  He was guilty and hurt and confused too, but none of that mattered in that second.  Mandy had been his closest friend for years.  Terry wasn’t going to fuck that up.  

Meeting her eyes, he reached a hand across the table, leaving it palm up, letting her choose to take it.  

It only took a minute before her fingers slid between his and her hand clenched around him.  

“I wish you’d warned me,”  he said quietly.

“I couldn’t,” she replied almost immediately, “I wanted to but I couldn’t.  Tony said it could have compromised your interview and the defense could have used it against us.  It was bad enough that I talked to Svetlana but she never would’ve talked to the cops if someone didn’t soften her up to the idea first.”

“You wouldn’t have had to tell anybody we talked.”

“C’mon.  You want to run the risk of having to lie during testimony or something?  This is fucking serious!”

Ian shot her a baleful glare.  “I’ve done way worse than lie in court.”

Her return shot was just as baleful.  “Really?” she asked witheringly, “You’ve done worse than committing perjury while testifying in a major criminal court case?  With an ADA who’s out for blood?”  She carefully pulled her hand away and leaned back against the cheap vinyl seat, crossing her arms and staring at him.  Ian could still see her genuine remorse but it was balanced now by incredulity. “Look,” she went on, softening her tone, “I couldn’t tell you.  If you want to be pissed about that then fine, I guess you can be.  I feel fucking awful that you didn’t get a head’s up but I’m not sorry that I did what I did.  And I’m doing it the right way this time, okay.  I need that fuck to be locked up forever.  He’s hurt too many people I love and that includes you.  And you’re doing really good now, which is exactly why I couldn’t warn you.  I don’t want you to get messed up by this.”  She looked away, letting her gaze travel to the large front windows

Silence hung between them for a few minutes as she gave him time to consider her words. Ian leaned back himself, letting his hands rest on the table top loosely.  He heard the truth in her little speech, much as he didn’t like it.  True, he’d been raised in the southside with its frontier style justice, but that wasn’t really his world anymore.  Or Mandy’s, or his siblings’, or any of the people he loved.  Mandy was right.  They had a chance to actually take Terry the bastard down, but they needed to follow the rules. 

Her eyes shifted back to him carefully and he offered her a little smile, relieved to see some of the worried tension melt out of her features.  Reaching back across the table, he took both of her hands in his again and gave them a squeeze.

“Okay.” he said simply.

“Okay?”

“Yeah.  Okay.”

He squeezed tighter, holding her gaze.

“How’s the office work going?” he asked lightly.

Mandy offered him a little smile.  “It’s good,” she said with genuine enthusiasm, “Real good.  It’s insanely normal there.”

“Still have your cubicle?”

She grinned, “Hell yeah.  Only I got promoted so now I have one against the window.  I have plants, a beta fish.  An ergonomic keyboard.”

Ian grinned himself, “Sounds insufferably middle-class.”

Mandy nodded.  “I hope so.”

From over her shoulder, Ian could see Didi standing near the back, giving them a little space  She met his eyes with a  questioning glance as she held up a menu.  He gave her a nod and a grateful smile as she headed their way.  Once coffee and lunch had been ordered, he and Mandy turned back towards each other.

“I’m seeing someone,” she offered.  

He was surprised for a minute.  He’d heard nothing about this, when once upon a time, he’d have been the first person she’d have called.  

But things were different now.

“What’s he like?”

“He works with me,” she answered, a little smile spreading across her face.  It warmed Ian to see it.  “He’s actually in accounting but we’re on the same floor.” She paused for a moment while Didi swung around with their coffee, diligently adding cream and sugar and taking a fortifying gulp.

“How long have you been seeing him?”

“Seven months.”

“Are things good?”

“You mean, does he know about my shit show family’s latest shit show?”

Ian grinned brittlely.  “Yeah, I guess.”

She tapped her fingertips against the coffee cup’s ceramic lip, keeping her eyes fixed on it.  

“Yeah,” she admitted, “But not everything.  He knows there’s more.  I...I told him about my family before we ever got together.  He knows about prison and stuff.  And he knows about this attack.”  Ian could see the tension in her fingers as her hands curled around the cup tightly. “He doesn’t know that this has happened before.  I don’t ever want him to know that.  I can’t let him…”  Her voice trailed off.

Ian sipped his coffee carefully, giving her a second to catch her breath.  Tears were welling in the corners of her eyes and her fingers were trembling.  

“Why?” he asked calmly.

“Because I don’t want him to be disgusted,” she whispered furiously, losing her battle to contain the tears, “I don’t want him to know that I let someone do that to me and then stayed in that house.  That I let it happen again!.”

“You didn’t…”

“I  _ did _ !  Okay, no I didn’t.  In my head, I understand that.  I know I said no.  I know I fought.  I know that I was dealing with shit outside of my control.  I know all the answers, Ian.  It doesn’t always make it easier, though, okay.  It doesn’t make me feel any fucking better.”

Ian reached out, recapturing her hands as she squeezed her eyes shut.  “What would?”

“Make me feel better?”

“Yeah.”

She snorted, “Fuck, _ this _ .  This makes me feel better.  Fighting back makes me feel better.  But no one will understand that.”

Ian could feel his jaw tightening, “You mean your family.”

“I mean my brothers at least.  Iggy and Colin won’t be okay with this.  Joey’s a lost cause by now but Jamie’ll get out in a few years,” she closed her eyes, gritting her teeth together angrily.  “It just isn’t fucking fair.  I’ll be the asshole because I went to the cops.”

“You need to tell them everything, Mands.  They might…”

“What?” she spit at him, annoyance all over her face, “They might what?  C’mon Ian.  They’ll think we should’ve taken care of the problem ourselves.  But that isn’t who I am anymore.”

Ian could feel a knot of frustrated anger on her behalf forming at the base of his skull.  He knew that feeling.  Mandy didn’t want to be in their old world anymore.  He understood that.  His whole family was working towards that, too, but still, old shit kept popping up, trying to drag them back in.  It seemed like no one ever completely made it out.

Except for one.  Maybe.  He wasn’t sure.

“You can ask me.”

He looked up across the table, suddenly realizing that he’d drifted away with his thoughts. “What?”

Mandy gave him a small shake of her head, “I know you want to ask, Ian.  And yes, he’s behind me on this.  I think he’s actually really relieved.  He has just as much reason to want the fucker locked up as I do.”

“Are you the one who talked to him?”

She nodded, taking another sip of her coffee.  “Yeah,” she said quietly, “I got him to tell me the whole story.  It wasn’t easy getting it out of him, as I’m sure you can imagine, but I’m glad I did.  I told him everything, too.  We needed to know this shit about each other, even if we didn’t want to.  We needed to know just how much damage that fucker had inflicted.  It made our decisions easier.”

Ian nodded.  It made sense.  If he knew them, and he did, they’d both be even more furious about what had been done to the other than what had been done to them.  

Now Mandy was the one staring off into the distance, her thoughts pulling her away.  Ian had so many questions on the tip of his tongue.  She’s said he could ask and he wanted to, wanted to beg for information actually, but he gritted his teeth and held his silence.  Maybe he was being a self-flagellating masochist but he really didn’t think he deserved to ask questions about Mickey.  He’d made his choices, so many bad choices.  Now he had to learn to live with them.  

Instead, he settled on the obvious question.  “What happens now?”

Letting out a long breath, Mandy ran her fingertips along her forehead.  “You’ve talked to Gracy about how this is going to proceed, right?”

He nodded. “Yeah, she explained that they’ll bring me and Lip in to prep us for testimony and shit.  But she said it could take a while for the process to get started.”

“Yeah, a couple of months maybe.”

“You okay with that?”

“I don’t think I get much say.  And that isn’t anyone’s fault really.  No Gracy’s, for sure.  She’s a hardass bitch, but she’s the right person to get this job done.  But yeah, it’ll take some time.”

“He stays locked up, though, right?”

She nodded quickly.  “Yeah, she told you they denied him bail, right.”

“Tony told me.”

“Tony’s a good guy.”

Ian snorted. “I know. I wish my sister had realized that.”

They both shared a laugh and for a second, the mood actually lightened.  For a second, they were just two southie kids laughing about the hijinks of an older sister and it was normal and free.  

Didi swung by with their lunch, the gentle clatter of plates breaking the spell.  They both arranged their food and utensils silently.

“Will Svetlana testify,” Ian heard himself asking.  He barely saw the surly Russian and her son anymore, but they were often on his mind.  

Across the table, Mandy nodded absently, poking at her mashed potatoes with a fork.  “Yeah,” she replied, focusing most of her attention on stirring up her gravy and corn, “I really wasn’t sure she would, but she actually agreed to it pretty quickly. Gracy’s working out her immigration issues, if you can believe it.”

“Really?  This chick wants Terry bad.”

“Hell yeah, she does.  And thank God, because she’ll put his ass away.  I believe it.  Like I said, the woman’s a complete bitch, but I feel a hell of a lot safer with her in charge.”  Mandy paused for a second, taking a bite of her lunch and chewing carefully, “I can’t believe the deal she managed to work out for Mickey.”

At first, the comment went right over his head, both the words Mandy spoke and the depth of their implications.  He jammed a few fries into his mouth, chewing mechanically while absently considering what she’d said.

Then the reality of what he’d just heard hit him like a bomb.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

His voice was sharp, cutting through the endless din of the restaurant.  Around them, other patrons glanced their way nervously at his tone and the fiery confusion that was suddenly marring his face.  

A deal!  But that meant…

He’d thought about Mickey endlessly since he’d left him at the border more than a year and a half ago.  Mickey consumed his waking moments and haunted his dreams.  The thought of him gnawed at Ian’s bones with the sharp, steady teeth of loneliness and worry, but he’d never let himself ask Mandy for information, never allowed himself some kind of relief.  He’d seen the soul-deep injury he’d inflicted upon the love of his life when he’d broken his promise.  For the past eighteen months, he’d let his own fears exact similar wounds against him.

It was his penance.

As soon as he’d spoken to Gracy and Tony, he’d known that Mickey was a part of whatever strategy they were using to bring down Terry.  He’d never even considered, though, that this might involve Mickey making any kind of deal.  He was supposed to be far away from all this shit, on some white beach in front of blue water.

He was supposed to be safe.  

Suddenly, Ian didn’t give a fuck about contrition and absolution.  He wanted answers.  Gracy had cut a deal for him?

“What kind of fucking deal?”

Even he was taken aback by the hot fury in his voice.  Mandy’s face tensed and he could see her schooling her features carefully, picking her words before she responded.

“You don’t have to worry about it,” she explained quietly, and Ian could hear that her tone had cooled slightly, “He just wants Terry locked up for good.  That’s the only reason he’s here.  He knows you’ve moved on, okay.  He’s not gonna bother you, even when he gets out.”

The rush of information spilled over itself inside his head.  He didn’t even know how to dissect everything that Mandy’s statement implied.  Here, she’d said.  He was here.  Where the fuck was here?  America?  Chicago?  But he didn’t have to worry because Mickey wasn’t going to bother him.  Bother him?   _ Bother  _ him?!  Being separated was what fucking  _ bothered  _ him.  If he saw Mickey again, he’d wrap him in his arms and never let him go.

Ian’s senses were assaulted by a wave of surreal euphoria.  Edges seemed sharper, colors brighter.  Across from him, the blue of Mandy’s eyes darkened.  The tiny grooves in the formica tabletop seemed huge beneath his hands.  Mickey was here.  Mandy had to mean Chicago because how the hell else could he help take down Terry?  Mickey didn’t work from the sidelines.  No, he was here.  But where?  He wouldn’t go back to that house so…

The truth of words finally hit him, running down his spine like cold water.  The sharp edges began to blur and his stomach began to turn as he met Mandy’s eyes, which were wide now and full of worry.

“Gets out…” he yelled before catching himself and hissing, “Gets out of where?  Where the fuck is he.  Jesus fuck Mandy is he…,” the words caught in his throat and he swallowed them down hard and tried again, “Is he locked up again?”

He choked on the last letter this time as every part of his body rebelled against his question.  Mandy’s face had gone a pallid, pasty white and her eyes had fallen closed as she rocked her head back and forth.  “Fuck, Ian, I’m sorry.  I...I thought Tony told you.” He stared at her, panic all over his face, as she forced herself to meet his eyes.  

“Yeah,” she answered simply.

For a moment, Ian had no reaction.  He felt light and a little dizzy, but otherwise okay.

Then his chest seized up like a vice.  He grabbed at the tabletop in a panic as tears he wasn’t even aware of poured down his face.  He couldn’t fucking breathe, he couldn’t, and Mickey couldn’t breathe in that place, he’d never been able to breathe there, that’s why he’d run, no he couldn’t...he couldn’t...fucking...bre…

He could hear Mandy yelling far away, through cotton or water or something.  He was falling sideways in slow motion, cradled along the way until he was resting on the floor.  Someone was feeling along his neck.  Someone was lifting his feet up.  

His head hurt.

Mandy’s voice grew louder, or maybe came closer, because suddenly he could make out his name on her voice.  She wanted him to wake up, to open his eyes.  He probably should.  In a minute.

“Ian!”

Fiona?

His eyes shot open.  At first, all he could see was a white panorama, interspersed with glowing orbs.  

The fuck?

Heaven?

No, just the ceiling of Patsy’s and the fancy globe lights Fiona had installed six months ago.  He was flat on his back on the linoleum next to the table he’d been sharing with Mandy not five minutes before.  He uncurled his finger tips where they lay clenched on the floor beside him, feeling his left hand brush through some kind of warm slop.  

Mashed potatoes.  Fucking perfect.  He’d taken out their lunch as he fell.

The noise around him had blended into a chaotic crescendo again but now he listened carefully, dissecting the sounds until he heard the one he was searching for.  Turning his head to the left, his gaze landed on worried brown eyes.

“You think you can walk, Sweetface?”

“Fi?”

His sister knelt beside him, a warm and familiar hand cradling the back of his head.  She smiled tightly but her face was stiff with concern.  Down by his legs, he could see Mandy as she knelt next to his sister, her own face a confused blend or fear and frustration.  The fear he understood.  The frustration though...why was she…

Shit.  Right.

He felt his abdominals contract and his stomach roil as he sat up suddenly, reaching towards her, needing answers.

“No, Ian.”

Fiona had pulled out her mom voice, a weapon she seldom employed anymore.  He stayed upright but he could feel his shoulders and necking sagging.  He didn’t move and didn’t ask any questions.  He couldn’t seem to make his mouth form words.  Instead, he just stared at Mandy with pleading eyes.  

He  _ needed _ fucking answers.

“Let’s get him up,” Fiona said, waving Mandy to his other side, “I’ll get you guys back in my office, okay?  You can talk there.”

Mandy’s grateful expression matched his. They got him to his feet as Didi collected their belongings and followed in their wake.  They finally plopped him down in the padded rolling chair where Fi made up schedules and handled the books. A bottle of water was pushed into his hands.

“Do I need to call a your doctor?” Fi was still using her mom voice.

Ian offered her a weak smile.  He could tell it didn’t reach his eyes. 

“I’m okay.  We were just talking about some shit and I let myself get too worked up.”

Fi gave him an appraising look.  She turned the same gaze on Mandy, carefully considering them both.  “Ian, you didn’t get worked up.  You had a damn panic attack.  And you’re white as a ghost,” she finished, gesturing to Mandy, who was perched on the corner of the desk, staring hard at the floor.  

Ian let his head fall back against the chair back.  He swallowed hard, feeling his breath hitch.  He still felt shaky and nauseous and Fiona’s brand of hard-edged concern wasn’t really helping right now.

“I’m sorry,” Mandy whispered, meeting his eyes, “I...I thought that Tony had told you.  He said he was going to.”

“No. He texted me about Terry but I haven’t actually seen him.  I had to pull an emergency shift and he had a case thing come up and...we just kept missing each other.”  Ian led his own gaze drop to the floor.  “That doesn’t matter though,” His head was starting to swim again.  He needed to get his emotions under control and for that, he needed answers.

“Mands?” he asked simply.

She nodded.  “They needed his testimony,” she said, pushing herself further up on the desk, letting her feet dangle and her back bow.  She looked exhausted and Ian hated it but he needed to know.  “Gracy insisted.  She said that she could turn a jury against Terry pretty easy, considering how taboo all the shit he’s done is, but that the nail in his coffin would be that he hurt two of his own kids.  The jury would need to see us, though.  It wouldn’t necessarily be enough to just to hear about it.  So, she asked me to call him and get him to talk to her about a deal.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Ian could see Fiona sink into a chair, her own face paling.  He could barely spare her a glance though, his gaze fixed on Mandy.

“When Tony had you come in back in March, they were still discussing the terms and, well, they probably wouldn’t have said anything anyway because they didn’t want to mess with your testimony and stuff.  But they were conducting phone interviews and they got Mickey a good lawyer to represent him.  The guy went down to Buenos Aires with the Feds when Mickey surrendered himself at the embassy.”

Ian startled at that, but before he could speak, Fiona was already asking, “Buenos Aires?” 

“That’s where he ended up.  He left Mexico pretty fast.”

In the corner, Fiona was doing some quick math in her head, counting back months.  He knew she’d put it together but all he could offer her was a shrug.  He’d been upfront with her and with Lip eventually, but she was still having a hard time dealing with the fact that he’d almost left them.  Family drama wasn’t his biggest problem right now, though.  

“Buenos Aires,” he muttered quietly, half to himself, “Did he like it there?”

“He did, I guess.  It’s hard to say. I haven’t really had a chance to have a real conversation with him.”

He nodded, feeling stupid.  Mickey’d been on the run and now, what, in jail again?  They weren’t having regular chats.  “So?”

“Yeah, so they brought him back.  They took him straight back in.  I didn’t even get to see him but…”

“So he is back,” Ian interrupted.  He could hear hints of hysteria in his voice and he choked down a mouthful of air to calm himself.  It didn’t work.  “He’s back in prison, after all the shit he went through.  He’s back in because of fucking Terry?”

“Not for long,” she answered hurriedly, glancing up at him through a curtain of her own hair which had tumbled over her shoulders.  She looked worried again.  “He’s in for a year, in an enclosed cell block, the one they use for crooked cops so they won’t get killed.”

“They put him in the snitch hole,” Ian spit out incredulously, “They actually put him there?  Are you fucking kidding?”

“I’m not,” she said, her voice sounding stronger, “They put him there to keep him safe.  That’s what matters, okay, that he’s safe.  I mean, isn’t that right, Ian?”

There was some defensive anger in her voice now, not directed at him exactly, but at his judgment and frustration.  Sinking back in the chair again, he examined her pissed off, pitiless expression.  Of course she was right.  Mickey needed to be safe.  He hated what he was hearing, hated that not only was Mickey back in a cell but he was back in lonely cell on a lonely block.  Still, Mandy had a point. It didn’t matter how much Terry deserved it.  There were some people who’d never be okay with Mickey turning on his own dad.  Prison culture didn’t handle that well.  

He didn’t want to think about that, about Mickey back in a cage when he should’ve been drinking a beer on a warm beach.  He needed to focus on the good news.

“Did you say a year?  How is that possible?”

“Gracy and his lawyer,” she replied evenly, her expression calming, “They appealed his whole initial conviction.  I don’t even think you can legally file an appeal when the convict is still technically on the run, but she made it happen.” Mandy let out a deep breath, only this one sounded distinctly satisfied, “And so I say again, she really fucking wants Terry gone.  And the entire justice system of the state of Illinois seems to agree with her.”

“What did he do?” Fiona asked from the corner, “Terry?” 

“I don’t even know,” Mandy answered, shaking her head while a bitter little smile split her lips, “And they don’t want to talk to me about it, at least, not until after the trial.  I get why.  They don’t want the defense to be able to say I’ve been manipulated against him.  Like I’d need to be convinced to hate that fuck.”

Ian could hear the fake leather creaking under his ass as he squirmed in the chair.  Fiona was suddenly beside him, looking down into his face.  

“You look better,” she said as she appraised him.  She turned her eyes towards Mandy.  “You really don’t.”  She turned and headed towards the door.  “I’m going to get Manny to make you more food. I’ll bring it back when it’s done.  I think you guys should finish your talk.”  With that, she slipped out into the little hall, pulling the door shut behind her.  

The room dimmed without the glare of the hallway fluorescents.  The two of them sat in silence for several minutes, neither sure what questions to ask or answers to give.

“Have you seen him?”

“What?  You mean, since he’s been back?  No.  They moved him under maximum security conditions and he hasn’t been allowed visitors yet.  Gracy told me mid-April.”

“Why maximum security if they appealed his whole case?”

“I think they were putting on a show.”

Silence fell again as Ian chewed that over.  His chest still felt tight and the image of Mickey in shackles, surrounded by people with guns, wasn’t making it any better.  Neither was the image of him in a tiny cell, all alone.  

Could he breathe in there?

“I want to go see him.”

“Ian!”

Mandy’s voice cut through him like a knife, high pitched and incredulous.  She stared hard at him from her perch on the desk, her mouth open with exasperation. He glanced away, looking anywhere but into her critical glare.

“What do you want me to say, Mandy?” he asked, fixing his gaze on his hands, “You’re sitting in there telling me that I don’t need to worry.  That he isn’t going to bother me.  What am I supposed to do with that shit?  I want to be bothered!”

“You didn’t before,” she said quietly.

He could feel those words like a punch to the gut, but it was a punch he deserved.  Of course Mickey and Mandy figured he wouldn’t want to see his ex-boyfriend.  Why the hell would they think he did?  Hadn’t he been stomping Mickey’s heart to shreds for at least the last three years?  The cheating, the dumping, the ignoring, the abandonment.  He probably didn’t want to bother Ian because he didn’t want Ian bothering him.  

“Ian,” she said in a voice that was calmer but somehow just as critical, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.  Do you want him safe?  I know you do.  Then we need to get Terry behind bars.  

Terry hates me now.” she continued, shifting uncomfortably on the desk, “and he hates you, too.  You’re probably number two on his list, the ‘piece of shit faggot’ who corrupted his son.  But Mickey is in a whole other league.  The son he had the highest hopes for, whatever the hell that means, and he publicly challenged him and admitted he was gay.”

“But that was on me!  I made him do that!  If Terry wants to kill someone…”

“Ian, you didn’t make him do anything he didn’t want to do then.  Once I understood what was going on, so much shit started to make sense.  It was killing him,  living that lie.  There’s plenty of other stuff you can take the blame for, but that’s not on you, okay.  You helped him.”

“But I wouldn’t be helping him now?”

“I don’t know, Ian.  I just don’t know.  I’m saying we need to stay focused.  We need to get Terry locked up.  That has to be the priority.  I’m scared as fuck, Ian.  This Gracy woman’s the real deal but I’m still scared.  Terry’s a rabid dog now.  He’ll come after me. He’ll come after you and my brothers and your family.  He’ll come after Yevvy, Ian.”

A sharp intake of breath cut through the room.  It took Ian a second to realize that the sound had come from him.  There was a knock on the door and suddenly Fi was back with two plates of food, silverware tucked under their arm.  She left quickly after strict instructions that they both eat.  

Ian poked at his chicken fried steak, his head, heart, and stomach all too heavy to deal with food.  Across the little room, Mandy was taking slow, methodical bites, her gaze distant and her mind a million miles away.

“If you go,” she said suddenly, keeping her eyes on her plate, “you can’t go thinking you’re going to fix everything.  And you can’t go for yourself.  You only go if you can be what he needs right now.  He’s changed, okay.  I haven’t seen him but I was talking to him a lot and I can tell you that he’s not doing too well.  He seems…”

“What?”

“I don’t know.  Smaller, like a wall that’s crumbled under the weather.  And tired.  He’s still trying to be strong for all of us, though.  He gave up everything, again, for all of us.  So you don’t go up there unless you’re willing to be the one to give something for a change.”

She stared hard at him until he wilted and looked away.

And nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, we get some Ian/Mickey face time finally.


	5. Welcome to Where Time Stands Still

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey and Ian get some face time and Mickey gets some interesting news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is shaping up to be a pretty long story, so please don't be surprised by the slow development. We'll get there, I promise.

**Mid-April 2019**

There was a bump on the El track, somewhere down near the wheels, and it reverberated up, rattling the whole car and it’s inhabitants.  Ian’s hands shifted against his legs, but he hardly noticed the bump and jive of the train  

His hands had been shaking since he left the house.

Ian let his head fall back against the glass window, the steady vibration at the back of his skull creating an oddly soothing sensation, chasing away the sharpest of the pressure pangs that was launching an assault on his temples.  He recognized the signs of a tension headache and resolved to give his doctor a call the very next morning.  He’d promised Fiona and Mandy that he’d keep taking care of himself.

Mandy.  She hadn’t pulled any punches, but then, that wasn’t her way.  Over the rest of their cramped lunch date in Fiona’s office, she’d broached several painful topics.

“I’m still not clear on this,” she’d muttered, picking idly at her food, barely eating despite her promise to Fiona, “I mean, I know we haven’t seen each other much lately, but we have seen each other some.  You never ask about him.  And you told him you’d moved on.”

He’d looked up at her then, feeling the wet tears that were pooling at the corners of his eyes. “He told you that?” he asked softly, his voice thick with shame.

“Yeah.  When I told him Gracy needed your testimony.  He was worried.  He had it in his head that you might not help out if it meant having to see him again.  It seemed pretty clear to him you wanted a clean break.”

“He can’t really believe that,” Ian stated incredulously.

“Pretty sure he does,” Mandy stated, a tinge of her defensive snark invading her words. “At least, he wasn’t willing to risk it.”

“I’m too much of a risk?”

“To him?”  Mandy had sighed, “Ian, I love you but let’s be honest.  He’s risked a lot for you.  A lot.  I’m still not sure you even realize how much.”

“I do,” he’d spit out, surprised by the aggression in his own voice.  “I do,” he’d continued in a more subdued tone, letting his gaze fall to the floor.  “I didn’t always and I admit that.  I knew what Terry had done, what he’d put both of you through.  Hell, he’d pulled a gun on me twice by then.  And I still went and called Mick a coward, when he was the one who actually got it.  He knew how far Terry would go, when I was just ignoring what was staring me right in the face.”

Mandy had put the plate down carefully on the desk beside her and let her hands fold over her lap.  She’d looked drawn and tense and in desperate need of a safe place to lay her head and recover from the shit storm that had been flung her way her whole life.  “Ian,” she’d said, letting his name hang in the air between them for a few moments as she collected her thoughts.  “There’s some truth in all of that, but it’s not the biggest thing.  The biggest thing is the hope.” her voice had broken hard on the last word and she’d choked down a sudden, hitching sob as tears sprung in her eyes.  Ian had felt a knot in his chest and he’d risen out of his seat to comfort her, only to pull up short as she’d waved him back and batted frantically at her eyes. “Shit, I’m not doing this.  I can’t start because then I can’t stop.”  

She’d snatched up her dinner napkin and wiped furiously at the offending tears, taking a few deep breaths to calm herself.  “We can go over and over all the shit that’s happened to all of us over the past few years.  It wouldn’t get us very far.  It was the hope that really fucked him up, Ian.  Mickey was closed off from everybody, even me and Iggy and shit.  It meant he didn’t expect much out of life, but at least life couldn’t hurt him too bad, right?  But then you came around and he let that guard down.  He started to hope that he could have something better.  And every time, every fucking time he’d start to believe it, it would get ripped away.  And you did a lot of the ripping.”

He’d felt a ripping of his own at those words, a tearing deep in his chest at that horrible truth.  His heart literally hurt but he did nothing to ward off the pain or to slow Mandy’s honest words.  She was right, after all.  How many times had he set Mickey up and knocked him down?  

Mandy had shifted uncomfortably on the desk and he’d  found himself glancing up at her.  “Look,” she’d continued carefully, “This isn’t only about you, okay.  I feel like an absolute bitch for dragging him back here, even though I think it’ll be good for him to give Terry what he deserves.  And that’s the thing, Ian.  He’s been hurt by a lot of people but no one has hurt him as bad as Terry.  He’s our father, he’s supposed to take care of us and he…”she’d caught another sob, fighting this one back with more determination.  “The point is, he needs to do this.  So do I.  It’s about more than just keeping all of us, including Yev, safe.  It’s also about us exorcising this piece of shit from our lives.  I need that and so does he.  The difference is that I still have people giving me support.  Mickey really doesn’t.”

A loud group of teens jerked Ian out of his memory as they pushed their way onto the train doors and headed towards the empty seats at the front of the car.  He shook his head for a moment, pressing a thumb between his eyes, before standing up and stepping onto the platform.  His head continued to swim as he headed down the stairs from his final train.  This was his third transfer, but really, he should count himself as lucky.  At least they’d kept Mickey federal and housed him in the MCC.  It would’ve been a hell of a lot worse if they’d stuck him in out in Thomson.  Or Tamms.  That would’ve made the promise he’d made to Mandy and himself way harder to keep.  

His thoughts crept back to her as he wound his way up Dearborn towards West Van Buren St. 

Mandy had finally started eating again, chewing carefully and methodically while her thoughts drifted a thousand miles away.  Ian hadn’t wanted to interrupt, but she’d brought it up and she deserved to know the truth.  

“I’m not over him, Mandy,” he’d said simply, averting his eyes.  He’d felt her gaze on him, probing at him, but he hadn’t been able to look up.  “I’ll never be over him.  I thought I could be once, back when I was just getting better, just getting my feet under me.  I thought I could protect myself if I just left my old life behind.  I was wrong.  I think about him all the time, okay.  I dream about him and worry about him.  Literally, an hour does not go by without him crossing my mind.” They’d both let out a breath simultaneously before he’d continued, “I wanted to ask you about him every time I saw you.  I wanted to beg you to tell me everything.”

“You didn’t.”

“I didn’t because I didn’t deserve to.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Ian, are you…”

“No!  No, hear me out.  I didn’t deserve to know.  If I’d wanted to know, I should have fucking gone with him, right?  I mean, that’s fair.  I break my promise and his heart, abandon him when he needs me, then I don’t get to know what’s going on with him anymore.”

Mandy’d snorted, “So this is your fucking punishment?”

He’d nodded, “Yeah.”

“Un-fucking-believable,” she’d muttered under her breath before aggressively chomping down on a bite of mashed potatoes.  Swallowing, she’d tapped her fork against the cheap china plate.  

“He’s far away,” she’d said simply, seizing and holding his gaze.  “He’s gone so deep inside himself.  He needs people in his corner, Ian.  He needs people to help him, but don’t expect him to be receptive or anything.  Especially if it’s coming from you.  I need you to understand that.  If you go visit him, it needs to be for him.  Completely.  None of it can be about you because I don’t think he’s going to meet you halfway or anything and if all you’re going to do is walk away again, then don’t even bother to go.”

“I won’t do that to him.”

“No, I want you to think about it first.”

“Mandy, fuck,” he’d finally spit out, real frustration bleeding into his voice, “I’m not expecting you to believe me, okay.  I respect that you can’t, but just, fuck, know this.  Know that I’ve been thinking about this for years.  I’m telling you the truth.  Every hour of every day.  I’m not sick anymore.  I’m not blaming him for shit that isn’t his fault.  I’m not running away from him like he’s the problem.  I can be there for him.”

“Okay,” she’d said quietly, “What if he tells you to go away?”

“Then I will,” he had answered, just as quietly, “ I won’t like it but I will.  But not until he’s out.  He’ll just have to fucking deal with me until then.”

There was as strong chemical smell in the long, narrow hallway he was led down after clearing the intense security check at the visitor’s gates.  His work shoes were squeaking again.  He was off today but Mandy had argued that an official looking uniform would lend him some credibility and put the guards at ease.  The squeaking was still shrill and grating.  The fluorescents reflected harshly against the beige cinder block walls.  

The guard slowed up outside a thick glass door, turning back to him with a mirthless, professional glare.  

“Remember that your conversations are subject to recording.  You have no expectation of privacy and neither does the inmate.  Do not touch the partition.  Your visit cannot exceed fifteen minutes.” He gave Ian an appraising glance, “Do you have any questions?”

“No,” he heard his own voice reply, clear and far more confident than he really felt.  The guard simply nodded and held the door open for him.  It fell shut behind him with a heavy cluh-clunk sound.

The room itself was small and as narrow as the hallway.  There was a glass window in front of him, looking into a wider cinder block room.  There was the typical counter, hard plastic chair and phone receiver hanging on the wall.  He folded himself into the little chair and fixed his eyes at the steel plated door off to the left on the other side of the glass.  He hated this little room already.  He hated the harsh smell, the hard edges, the glaring lights.  He felt trapped by the narrow walls.  In fifteen minutes, though, he’d be leaving, heading back into a wider, warmer world.  He wanted to take Mickey with him, back to the their soft shared bed where they could curl around each other and breath each other in.  

Stop, stop, he needed to stop. He couldn’t think about what he wanted or needed now.  He was here for only one reason; to convince Mickey that he wasn’t alone.

As if one cue, a sudden clanging sound emitted from the door off to the side of the glass.  It swung forward and another guard stepped through, standing in profile as he spoke to someone outside the door.  Ian curled his fingers into fists, willing his hands to stop shaking.  He couldn’t do anything about his heart, frantically pounding against his sternum while some asshole chatted calmly on the other side of the glass.  

The guard moved suddenly, stepping back out of into the hall.  The hand holding the door was replaced, the fingers curling around the edge, and Ian’s pulse jumped again as he took in the familiar fingers with their signature tattoos.  There was a forearm in his sight now, and the trim of an orange jumpsuit over a bicep. 

Mickey!

He was there, so close, and Ian’s hand unwittingly rose to the glass before he snatched it back.  No breaking the rules, no aggravating the guards.  He took a deep, slow breath and willed himself to be patient as his entire body raced.

Ian’s mind had played this scene out in so many ways over the past three weeks.  There’d been joy.  There’d been violent confrontations.  Mickey had looked huge and furious.  Mickey had looked sick and weak.  He’d imagined it in so many combinations but it still managed to shock him him when Mickey finally turned and and stepped through the door.

He paused the second he realized who was sitting on the opposite side of the glass.  Ian caught his gaze for a moment but the shorter man quickly averted his eyes, glancing down and then to the side.  His face and body were schooled in perfect control.  It was only the eyes and the slight intake of breath that gave away his thoughts.

He was considering retreating, just stepping quietly back through the door and avoiding this scene all together. 

Ian could feel his panic double down,  but Mickey’s indecision only lasted a moment, the barest trace of unsurety on his features was quickly replaced with the slightest tinge of resignation.  He moved through the room with a careful grace that still managed, in its wrongness, to turn Ian’s stomach.  The bravado-laden swagger, once as essential to Mickey as breathing, was gone,  replaced by precise, measured movements.  The shorter man glided carefully, surrounded by an ambience of stillness even as he moved forward.  It made him seem even more dangerous somehow, as if the kinetic energy he’d once exuded had been leashed.  

Ian felt a different knot in his stomach, battling for dominance against his nerves.  It was a tremendous feeling of despair.  Mickey’s eyes were still fixed on the ground and the hyper-expressive luster of the blue was now flat and static.  His hair was short, shaved closer to his skull than Ian had ever seen it, and his skin had a chalky look to it.  

He was thin, too, corded all over with a wiry musculature in place of the bulk he’d always tended to build up while on the inside.

He was still Mickey but Ian suddenly felt like he was seeing a stranger.  As the brunette carefully seated himself, his fingers hesitating as they reached for the phone, the feeling only deepened.  He couldn’t worry about that now, though.  He only had fifteen minutes.

“Hey,” he blurted out, too loud and giddy for the little space.  Even Mickey seemed to think so, jumping a little at the sharp sound and finally glancing up to meet Ian’s gaze.  

“Hey,” he responded quietly, and Ian drew in a sharp breath.  It was still Mickey’s voice, still him, but the sound was as measured and controlled as his movements.  

They said nothing for a moment, just stared through the glass, considering each other. Below the counter, Ian dug his fingers into his thigh, using the slight pain as a distraction, to force himself to be quiet.  He wanted to speak, to ask Mickey a million questions just so he could hear more of his voice, but still he waited.  He couldn’t seize control here.  He had to let Mickey talk first.

Those first words took awhile. Over the past few weeks, Ian had imagined Mickey yelling and cursing at him a hundred times.  He’d imagined stony rage.  What he’d never envisioned was the quiet, honest question that Mickey uttered.

“Why you here?”  

The voice was as devoid of cocky confidence as his movements.  Instead, the sound was open and unaffected.  Honest in a way Mickey had always avoided, because such a thing was a weakness, a liability.  And then, of course, once he offered Ian that trust, Ian had taken it and rent it to pieces.  That was what this was.  Those old defenses had failed Mickey.

He had higher, thicker ones now, and Ian could see no way through them except for straight answers.  

“I wanted to see you,” he stated simply, trying to hold Mickey’s gaze.  He anticipated a crack in the careful mask, a sarcastic little quip, but all he got was a calm nod and downcast eyes.  “Are you doing okay?”

“Yeah,” came the quick, quiet reply.  Mickey glanced up for a moment, offering Ian a tiny, closed lipped smile and stiff nod, but his eyes somehow looked around and over and through him.  He glanced down again quickly.  

Ian felt a sinking feeling in his stomach.  He couldn’t think of a thing to say.  Yelling and cursing he could have handled, but this…  He’d known Mandy was serious when she’d said Mickey had gone deep inside himself, but still, he could never have predicted this.  He ran through a million ideas in his head, questions he could ask, things he could share.  They all seemed inappropriate in this moment.  

“I was expecting Mandy.”

Ian jerked at the sudden words, staring hard through the glass as Mickey glanced at him again.  He tried to form a light response and failed spectacularly as his face performed a wild, panicked contortion.  He blinked, dumb and owlish, but Mickey made no effort to grin or jest.

He just looked away again.

“I’m still on your visitor’s list,” he blurted out suddenly, his voice high and a little hysterical again.  Through the glass, Mickey just nodded slowly, as if that explained everything.  

“Okay,” he replied simply.

“Don’t take me off.  Please!”

“Okay.”

The quiet, monosyllabic replies were driving him nuts and every response he came up with seemed pushy and manipulative as hell.  He could hear a weight in Mickey’s single-word answers, as if the brunette was carefully measuring each phrase.  So Mandy was right about that, too.  Mickey was worried about pissing him off.  He still didn’t trust him not to bail and leave them out to dry without his testimony.  And why the fuck shouldn’t Mickey feel afraid?  How many times had Ian let him down?  He thought back to the last time he’d sat in a room like this, staring at Micky through a glass partition.  The other man had begged him to lie, to say he’d wait even though they both knew that Ian had no intention of following through with that promise.  That was the problem, of course.  That was what Mandy had argued in the back office at Patsy’s.  It was the hope that had broken Mickey down.  The hope that Ian would actually start to give a shit again.  The hope that by admitting what he was to himself and everybody else, it might make Mickey’s life a little easier.  The hope that he wouldn’t have to run alone.  And every time, every fucking time, there was Ian to stomp that hope to pieces.

Why should Mickey think this time would be any different?

He needed to think of something to say.  Their time was half gone already and Ian didn’t need to ask to realize that the guards in here would be total hardasses about the rules. He needed to say anything that could take Mickey’s mind off this shit place for a moment.

“So, Buenos Aires?  How did that happen?”

An explosion of self-castigating profanity bounced around inside his skull as the words were leaving his mouth. What the hell was he thinking, asking that fucked up question?  He wanted to draw Mickey out, to get him to talk to him, and here he was, poking at his last major betrayal.

He was a fucking idiot.

Or maybe not.  For the first time, the tiny smile that barely cracked Mickey’s lips seemed genuine and warm.  For the first time, there was a touch of the old sparkle in his blue eyes. 

“Just kinda happened,” he answered in a voice that suddenly contained some texture and vitality.  It ripped through Ian hard, that the one thing that brought Mickey back a bit was the one thing he wasn’t a part of, but then hell, who’s fault was that?  Mandy’s words jumped to the forefront of his mind again and he castigated himself inwardly.

Jesus fuck, this  _ wasn’t about him! _

How many times did he need to be reminded of that fact?

He took a quick breath and offered a small but genuine smile in return.  

“So you’ve seen the ocean?”

“Yeah,” The answers remained short but the voice was still light.  

“What was the best part about it?”

“The color,” Mickey answered immediately, sounding almost like his old self for a moment, “It was...fucking indescribable.”  His eyes drifted away, focused on the memory.  “I’ll miss it,” he finished as the little bit of light snapped out of his eyes.

And shit, they were back to square one, because what the hell could Ian possibly say?  He could promise Mickey that he’d see that water again, but they both knew that was probably bullshit.  And Mickey didn’t do bullshit.  Ian refused to believe he’d changed that much.

Five minutes left.  What the hell could he say?

“You stayed legit.”

The statement caused Ian to jerk his head up.  Mickey was taking in his EMT uniform and for a second, he could have cursed himself for wearing it, even if it did get him in the door without a hassle. The uniform.  The unmistakable image of the life he chose over the man he loved, when he told him that he had his shit together and that Mickey was no longer a part of that shit.  

“I mean, it’s just a job,” he said quietly, feeling red creep into his cheeks.

“No, it’s good,” came the reply, animation returning to the voice again, “It’s good that you’re doing alright,”  Mickey paused, glancing down.  “You need to guard that shit.  Don’t risk it.”

Ian was getting a little tired of the suckerpunches karma kept throwing his way, but then, he guessed he deserved them.  Mickey’s eyes had deadened again, signaling a quick retreat back into the protective inner sanctum he’d erected for himself deep inside his head space.  His words seemed so innocuous on the surface, but Ian was fluent in Milkovich and he knew what that statement really meant. 

Mickey was telling him not to bother.  And it fucking killed him because even now, even after everything that had gone down, Mickey was still thinking of him first.  Mickey was still trying to keep him safe.

“Are you really alright?” he blurted out, emotion and a ticking clock causing him to throw caution aside.

Mickey looked a little startled by the tone and directness of the question, but he only answered with a simple, bland, “Yeah.”

“Because you look exhausted.  You look too thin.  Are you getting enough rest?  And you don’t look like you’ve been doing much working out.  I mean, you always told me that’s all you did when you were inside.”

“Can’t too much,” came the calm flat response.  “Not in this part.”

“So what are you doing then?

Another little smile cracked Mickey’s lips,  “Reading.”

“Oh yeah,” Ian replied, his mind immediately back in their dugout.  Mickey’s argument against reading had always been that he was fucked for life anyway.  But if he was reading now…

“Books?”

“Mostly.”

“What are you reading?”

“It’s called  _ A Swiftly Tilting Planet _ .  Time travel and shit.  Changing destiny.”  Mickey paused, glancing down at his hands.  “It’s part of a series.” he concluded dully, but his eyes retained some life.

“Yeah, I remember,” Ian could hear the slight hysteria return to his voice, but the idea of Mickey reading gave him a strange sense of hope. “Lip gave them to me.  The first one’s  _ A Wrinkle in Time _ , right?  I think we all read them.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, I mean, not Carl.  Let’s not get crazy up in here.”

Mickey’s lips twitched slightly again.

The heavy metal door to the left swung open with a harsh metallic wrenching sound.  

Mickey stiffened and made to stand up.  “Gotta go.” he said quietly.  He pushed himself to his feet and reached out to hang up the phone.

Ian felt another sudden burst of panic.  This could have gone better.  It could have gone worse but either way, he needed to be able to do it again.  

He needed to be able to come back.

“Mick,” he called into his receiver, some of the panic bleeding into his voice.  

The shorter man paused, lax and disembodied once again.  He didn’t make eye contact.

“Mick, don’t take me off the list, okay.  Please,” he forced a deep breath down his throat and calmed himself down.  “Please?” he finished, quiet and placating.

Mickey glanced up and for a second his eyes were alive again, pleading.  His fear, his lack of trust, was on full display and Ian could read it plain as day.

“Don’t fuck around with this, Gallagher,” it seemed to say, “Not with this.  Not with my sister.  Not with my kid.”

But a second later it was gone and he only nodded his head slowly, his expression blank and his eyes fixed on the floor.  

Then he was gone.

Ian sat in the chair for what felt like hours, his gaze attached to the metal door.  It was only moments later, though, that a guard came to collect him.  He went along cooperatively, keeping his head down and his mouth shut.  He needed to be on good terms with these people.

He’d being seeing a lot of them over the next year or so.

And next time, he was bringing books.

*************************************************************************************

**Mid-May 2019**

Gracy’s assistant got on his fucking nerves.  He was too worn down to give much of a shit about anything by this point but this guy consistently made him feel like indulging in violence.  Maybe it was the stupid prep school haircut.  Or the regulation douchebag half-smirk.  Or the way he constantly seemed to be looking Mickey up and down and finding him lacking. 

He couldn’t stand the guy, but there was no getting rid of him.  Even if he’d bothered to ask, which he wouldn’t, he doubted that Gracy’s sense of obligation would go that far.  The blonde, for all that Mickey wanted to dance on his corpse, was obviously a valued member of the ADA’s staff.  He’d even seen the steel-souled bitch defer to the asshole’s “legal genius” on a few occasions.

Whatever.

He shouldn’t be worrying about this, not when he had bigger issues to consider.  Gracy wouldn’t do him the favor of ditching the oversized frat boy, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t handing out other early Christmas presents.  

At least, that’s what his lawyer seemed to be saying as he sat across the table from him.

“Wait,” he interrupted quietly.  His lawyer immediately shut up and Gracy snapped to attention.  The blonde smirked.  Fucker.  

“Wait,” he said again, “You’re letting me out?”

“Yes, Mickey,” Gracy replied, a touch of exasperation in her voice.  To her left, the blonde actually looked a little fond.  

Fuck that guy.

“How can you…”He stopped himself and took a deep breath.  He’d given up on trying to figure this all out.  The DA, the Feds, and the Chicago PD all seemed to have a massive hard-on for Terry, enough so that they were willing to forgive and forget pretty much anything.  But this…

“As Mr. Clarke was explaining, we have limited space in protective custody.  We need that space to hold inmates who cannot be released or held in the general population.  There are three crucial witnesses who need to be housed in your block at this time.  Your original charges have been rescinded. You are the obvious choice to be cleared out of the block through parole.”

It was impossible to miss the slight preening that Gracy emitted as she rattled through the explanation.  Mickey didn’t know how to take that.  The woman was fucking great at her job.  He and Mandy both agreed on that and Ian had mentioned it at what was becoming his weekly visits...nope, not gonna think about that.  Yeah, Gracy was good.  But there was something about her demeanor that went beyond the professional, that made Mickey think that bringing Terry down was deeply personal to her.

“Can I ask what this is about?” he blurted out, a little shocked by his own question.  Across the table, Gracy’s face turned mulish, then blank.  
“What this is about?” she asked cooley.

He nodded.  “I want Terry locked up. He deserves it for what he did.  But this type of shit doesn’t usually win people the kinds of favors you keep offering up.”  
“You know so much about the justice system?” she asked in a voice that was still frosty.

“Yeah,” he replied simply, his voice quieting again, “You know I do.”  He stared at her inquisitively.

She shook her head, flustered, glancing down at her watch.  “I have a phone appointment in five minutes. Mr. Clarke,” she directed her voice to Mickey’s attorney, who picked up his legal pad quickly.

“We’ll be in touch, Mickey,” the other man uttered as he headed towards the door.  Gracy followed, but not before Mickey caught the slight nod she offered to the blonde.  The door swung shut behind her.

The blonde leaned back in his chair, his light blue eyes piercing.  Mickey stared back, but he lacked the energy to mount any kind of appropriate death glare.  Jesus fuck, he just wanted a straight answer.  Now he was stuck in here with this dude, who was running his assessing gaze over him again.  It made him want to squirm and he suddenly knew that the blond fuck was undressing him with his eyes.

No.  It was worse.  The blonde was peeling his skin right off, seeing all his nerves laid bare.  

He glanced away, staring at the floor.  He hated it, hated that he couldn’t conjure up the words and the attitude to fight back any more.  All he wanted was some honesty and then a nap.  And then maybe to finish the books about the wizard kid that Ian had brought him.  The stupid red headed twins from the stupid red headed family had just tried to stick their names into the goblet thingy and he wanted to know…

“He killed cops.”

“What?”  The word was out of Mickey’s mouth before he even consciously recognized that the blonde had spoken.  Cops?  Terry had killed cops?

Holy shit!

“You’re shitting me?”

“Nope.  Two undercover cops.  I can’t give you details.  Just know that Gracy was involved in getting them in and then, once they were killed, her office couldn’t make the charges stick.  Terry basically bragged right to the last DA’s face that he did it but there was no corroborating evidence.” the blonde met his eyes and held them, “but this, she can make stick.  And it’ll put him away for a long time with ‘incestuous pediphile’ practically tattooed on his forehead.  That’ll give a lot of people some peace.  Including you and everyone you give a shit about.”

Mickey could feel his hands shaking a bit at this new, unwelcome information.  What kind of powder keg had he been raised on.  He knew his dad ran drugs and collected for the mob.  Hell, he even knew that Terry’d put down some low-lifes,  but still, he’d always assumed he was small time.  This kind of shit was major.  It shook him to the core.

The blonde leaned back against the table and for a moment, he didn’t look like an out and proud douchebag.  He looked contemplative and a little concerned.

“This isn’t going to blow up in your face.” he said in a voice that sounded honest.  “You’re going to get out of here in about two weeks.  You’re going to testify against Terry Milkovich and then Terry Milkovich is going to go to jail and you’re going to live your life, okay.  So get ready for that.”

He stood and whisked himself out of the little room so fast that Mickey barely registered it.  He was alone with his thoughts for only a second before the guards were there, walking him back towards his cell.  His dinner was waiting for him but he barely glanced at it.  Exhaustion was overtaking him again and he quickly fell on the mattress, nestling his cheek down into the thin pillow.  The book Ian had given him, part of a set, was still lying on the pillow from earlier.  He thought about moving it, then thought better.  Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply of the book’s scent and let it carry him off to sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, we have a Milkovich throw down.


	6. Breathe the Open Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Milkovich siblings have a come to Jesus moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got delayed after I accidentally erased the last third of the chapter. Ah well, I like the new ending better anyway.

**June 2019**

The doors creaked, loud, metallic and ominous, as they swung open in front of him.  Mickey clutched the small brown bag he carried in one hand as he walked between the heavy doors.  It was almost funny, he thought to himself, how little the location mattered; juvenile detention, state prison, federal lock-up.  

The doors all made the same horrible sound.

He’d always hated this part, the act of walking out the doors and re-entering the world.  It had always seemed too surreal, as if, at the last minute, the guards would laugh and the creaking, groaning doors would slam shut in his face, all part of a cruel joke.  When he was young, he’d tempted this feeling, mocking the guards on his way out the door with a surface defiance.  Not this time, though.  His eyes remained fixed on the boring predictability of the metal walkway as it blended into a beige tile floor and then finally a concrete sidewalk in the wide world.  

He was out.

The thought didn’t bring him much comfort and he found himself pulling the brown bag containing everything he owned up against his chest, cradling it in both arms.  He could feel a sharp corner poke his chest but he ignored it and kept striding down the path.  There wasn’t much in the bag except for the books his visitor had brought him.  He hadn’t been able to leave them behind.

“Fucking pathetic,” he thought, then quickly let the thought drift away.  

Even self-recrimination took too much energy.

The sidewalk dead-ended at a little shed.  The guard inside gave him a nod as the gate to the twelve foot chain link fence rolled open.  Mickey returned the nod half-heartedly but his eyes stayed down until he’d made it to the other side of the barrier.  He heard the whirring of the pulleys as the gate slid shut behind him, and suddenly he was really out.  He was back in Chicago, a free man.

A low, deep breath escaped his chest. 

Mandy had been by to visit him just two days ago and she’d dropped off the new clothes and shoes he was wearing now.  He also had her private and work numbers if he needed them.  What he needed now was and address and  money for the El.  Why hadn’t he thought about that before.

Fuck.

He didn’t know how long he’d been staring at the ground, lost in a fugue and unsure how to proceed, when suddenly the toes of a pricey pair of flats appeared on the sidewalk under his downcast eyes.

“You planning on staying out here forever?” 

His head jerked up and there she was, looking pulled together and professional as hell in a black skirt and blouse.  She was there to get him.  Had they talked about that?  He remembered something, vaguely, but it was all washed away by the sudden realization that they were suddenly right in front of each other for the first time in years.

Now what?  Did he give her a hug?  He’d hugged Mandy more than anybody else in his whole life, with one exception, but standing here in the blazing sun in the parking lot of a federal prison after years of separation, they both seemed unsure.

It was Mandy who finally rolled her eyes. “Fuck this,” she blurted out, linking her arm through his and pulling him along as she started striding between the rows of cars, “If we want to just stare off into the distance and be weird about shit, we can at least do it while we’re sitting in the AC.”

“You got money for the El?” he asked.  His voice sounded so small to him out in the real world and he winced inwardly.  He didn’t speak again.

“Nah,” she said, slowing to a halt.  He could hear the pride in her voice as she released his arm and walked around to the driver’s side of a dark blue Jeep Renegade.  The lights blinked and the tell-tale click of disengaging locks echoed around the little space as Mandy slid inside the car.  Through the window, he could see her glancing back at him with a questioning look.  Okay, then.  He opened up the back door, placing his bag on the seat and glancing at a few of Mandy’s neatly folded changes of clothing.  He was almost afraid to climb inside the clean interior, like his very presence might grime it all up.

Mandy had gone legitimate, too, it seemed.

The little SUV suddenly roared to life.

“Mickey,” Mandy said over her shoulder in a slightly exasperated voice that suggested she knew exactly what he was thinking, “Get in the damn car.”

He complied, sliding into the front seat and settling back stiffly against the soft leather seat.  Cool air wafted across his skin and Mandy pressed a bottle of water into his hands.  

“Drink this,” she ordered, and for the first time, he saw how real the concern was on her face.  

He cracked open the bottle and took a long swig of the water, ignoring the way his eyes burned.  She was worried about him, after the shit she’d been through?  He didn’t think he’d ever felt like more of a fucking failure, and really, that was saying something.  Every male Milkovich child had been the frequent target of Terry’s crazy, but they’d all thought they’d done a pretty okay job of keeping their baby sister safe from him and the world at large.  They’d been wrong as hell.

And all this time, he’d thought his biggest fuck-up regarding Mandy had been letting her leave with Kenyatta.  

He suddenly realized that they weren’t moving.  He’d felt Mandy disengage the parking brake a minute ago but she still hadn’t pulled out of the spot.  Her hands clutched the steering wheel in a death grip as she stared straight through the glass.

“We can’t do this, Mickey,” she said quietly, and suddenly her voice was as flat and empty as his.  It caused a jolt in his heart.  He’d heard her sound like this  just before she’d taken off for Indiana with that piece of shit.  He never wanted to hear her sound like that again.  Not now, not when everything could be going so good for her.  He glanced over at her, trying to catch her eyes.  He didn’t need  to stay with her and bring their shit family back into her cleaned up world.  Gracy could set him up or something and…

“Jesus, Mickey.  I don’t mean you.” 

Suddenly she was meeting his eyes and she looked pissed and miserable at the same time.  They stared at each other across the center console, his expression confused, hers disbelieving.  

“Look,” she stated slowly, “I’m not gonna do this to you. I’m not gonna make you unpack all your emotions or anything, right after they let you out.  Someday, okay?  But not now.”  She paused for a second and examined his face but he could still feel confusion written all over it.  He didn’t know where she was going with this but ignoring emotional shit was a plan he could get right on board with. He nodded slowly but she was already talking again.

“I’m just gonna say one thing, okay.  We aren’t doing this.  We aren’t going to sit here and think about all the ways we screwed each other and failed each other or whatever.  There was shit we didn’t know.  Why?  Because we were raised to keep our mouths shut about everything all the time.  There were times we didn’t have each other’s backs like we should’ve.  Fine.  We’re human.  We screw up.  We did pretty well by each other, especially you by me.  So you stop beating on yourself about Kenyatta and I’ll stop kicking myself over not being around for Ian’s bullshit and for making you come home.”  She stopped again, leaning over to stare straight in his eyes. “And we’re not owning any Terry’s shit, okay?  None of it.  Fuck Terry.  He can carry his own sins.”

She leaned back against her seat again, running her hands over the steering wheel.

“Okay, Mickey?”

He stared at her for a long second as she fixed her eyes on the windshield, waiting.  A heavy weight seemed to slide off his shoulder and some of the bone deep exhaustion bled out of him.  He felt his head nodding slowly as he leaned back in his own seat.

“Okay.”

He closed his eyes as the jeep backed out of the parking space.

He kept the closed until they’d driven far enough to block out the sight of the prison, even from the rearview mirrors.  Then he let himself look around.  It hadn’t changed, that was for sure.  Same crowded streets and colorful, gawdy store signs.  The light was different here, too.  Buenos Aires always seemed so bright to him, vivid and clean.  He sighed inwardly, knowing that he was romanticizing the fuck out of the place.  It had it’s crime and its downtrodden neighborhoods like anywhere else in the world, but it had symbolized such new opportunity for him that he’d always see its beauty over anything else.  

He missed it, but he couldn’t dwell on that.  The opportunity was gone, crushed by a million factors but mostly by Terry.  He was back in Chicago, free and legal again, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that this place still felt like home.  

Maybe not the home he wanted, but home.

The traffic was heavy downtown and he was grateful for Mandy’s jeep and its functional AC.  They made their way through the streets gradually, heading towards more familiar areas.  Mickey could feel his hands clenching nervously against his thighs and he momentarily considered leaning into the backseat and grabbing one of his books.  He quashed the instinct quickly.  Some crutches shouldn’t be trusted to bear weight.  

They always cracked at the worst moment.

The cars thinned out in the late afternoon hour.  The streets became less recognizable and Mickey suddenly realized they weren’t heading towards the old neighborhood.

“Southshore?” he asked with sudden realization.

“It’s affordable and nice,” she answered with a little smile, “Besides, I needed a change.”

He nodded, staring out the window at the little shops along the main road.  

“You need smokes?”

He shook his head, still mesmerized by the world outside the window.

“You quit?”

“Nah.  Cut back some.”

“Okay.  Good.  That’s healthier.”  There was a pregnant pause.  “I only have one bedroom but I’ve got a couch that’s really deep and comfortable.  And hell, you can have my bed if you want it.”

“Couch is fine.”

“You sure?”

There was a tension in her voice he didn’t like.  She was assuming blame that didn’t belong on her and it pissed him off, but what could he say?  His words always screwed things up more.  

“Couch is fine, Mands.  I’ve been sleeping on a cot in a prison cell.”

“Shoulda been sleeping on a bed in Argentina.”

“And now I’ll sleep on a comfortable couch at home.”

They were stuck at a stop light and she let her eyes drift towards him, searching and hopeful and he stared right back, hoping that she could see his sincerity.  She studied him carefully for a moment but there was relief in her features when she turned back towards the road.  

“His shit is his shit, right?  Your words, Mands.”

She nodded again.

“Okay.”

They drove in silence for the last fifteen minutes, until she pulled into a side street and parked in front of a little red brick duplex with a large front porch.  The lawn was mowed and there were neat flower beds and some of those terra cotta planters brightening the place up.  It was nice, he decided, pretty and homey, just what he’d want for his little sister. Once again, he felt a rush of shame, like he didn’t belong in this new world she was building for herself, but once again, Mandy wasn’t having it.  She yanked open his door and pulled him onto the sidewalk, his brown bag dangling from her other hand.

“You’re the first family I’ve had over so you’re gonna let me show this place off, okay.” she demanded as she dragged him up the stairs and onto the  porch.  He could feel himself shifting nervously from foot to foot as she wrestled with the door locks but he didn’t really have time to overthink it before he was ushered inside.

Whenever Mickey  pictured any of siblings, it had always been against the backdrop of their old house on South Trumbull, overcast in gray.  As he looked around the bright clean entrance way, he realized that this was where she really belonged.  It was small but the space had an open floor plan that made it seem bigger.  The front room led directly into the kitchen and a little dining nook with a round table.  The living room was off the the side, holding a recliner, decent entertainment unit, and a couch that did look comfortable.  In the center of the room stood a light wooden coffee table and a sudden jolt ran through him when he realized it was the one from the old house.  

It looked different here, too.

Mandy was leaning against the wall, watching him as he looked around.  “So, there isn’t too much to it,” she said lightly, “not much of a tour anyway, but it’s quiet and safe.” She pushed off the wall, “Bathroom’s here,” she said as she pushed opened the door, revealing a decent sized space with clean white tiles and green detailing. “My rooms in here,” she pushed open that door too, and he glanced inside.  “I was serious about the bed, Mick.  It’s yours if you want it.”

“Couch is fine,” he said, hoping she could hear the insistence in his voice.

“Alright then.  I got a plastic storage shelf thing at Target for you to keep your clothes in.  I got you some new stuff but I’m kind of worried they’ll be too big.” She looked him over carefully, “You’re pretty thin right now.”

He snorted.  She shouldn’t be talking.  In fact, he was a little worried about how thin she was.  

“We should eat,” she said brightly, “What do you want?”

“Pizza.  Real pizza.”

“Done.” she pulled a paper menu off of the fridge and  strode towards the door, reaching into the purse she’d hung on a coat rack next to the window.  He turned back towards the kitchen, taking in some of the new appliances that graced Mandy’s counter, when he suddenly heard her draw in a sharp breath.

“Oh, fuck me,” she muttered in a dark tone.

“What?”

“Of course, they show up now.”  she was reaching for the front door, her expression suddenly stony and pissed.

“Who?” he asked, taking a step forward.  All the weight was settling on his shoulders again.

“Nothing,” she said, her voice a little calmer as she glanced back at him, “It’s just...fuck...Colin and Iggy are here.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, I texted them when I knew you were getting out. But Mickey...we haven’t talked, not since they found out about me going to the cops.”

Mickey nodded, unsurprised.  “When was that.”

“April.”

“Okay.”

She snorted, “Okay?  That’s all you have to say?  Really?”

He could feel some of the panic wash across his face and he tried to speak.  Nothing came out.  Fuck, when had he become so soft and fucking useless.

“I’m sorry,” she said suddenly, emphatically.  “This isn’t about you.  It’s about…,” she turned back towards the window, staring at it consideringly, “You know what, fuck this,” she muttered as she wrenched opened the door and stalked out onto the porch.

He followed her quickly, staring down the little path.  An older, white pickup truck was parked behind the little jeep and sure enough, two of his older brothers were standing at its side, staring back at him.  Colin’s curly blond hair was cut shorter now but Iggy looked exactly the same, right down to the dingy white t-shirt and the cigarette butt clamped between his teeth.  

Both of their eyes widened for a brief moment when he walked out behind Mandy.  Iggy’s relief was quickly replaced by anger but Colin’s face remained largely unreadable as he stared back at his younger siblings.  He stayed by the truck when Iggy started to approach.

“So you finally decided to drop by for a visit,” Mandy spit out in a scathing tone.  It caused Iggy to pause for a moment, but he got his bearings back pretty quickly.

“What I got to say, I got to say to both of you.  No sense coming over here until he was out.  Only want to fucking say this once.”  
From the steps, Mandy snorted again, crossing her arms and staring down at Iggy derisively.  Mickey came up beside her and shot her a glance out of the corner of his eye.  Mandy was tough as hell, he’d always known that, but she looked ready to go to war right now.  Colin wasn’t coming any closer at the moment, seeming content to see how this scene played out.  Even Iggy looked a little nervous as he paused at the bottom of the stairs.

“The cops, Mandy,” he snapped, sneering up at both of them, “You fucking snitched like little fucking rats?  What the fuck is wrong with you two?”

The air around them was suddenly very still, like the eerie calm before a storm.  Mickey could feel the hair on his neck and arms standing at attention.  His head was beginning to pound.  Once upon a time, he’d loved throwdowns with his siblings, be they verbal or physical.  Now, just the idea made him feel sick.  It didn’t matter, though.  Mandy and Iggy were the ones who were going to settle this.

“What the fuck is wrong with me?” Mandy asked in a deceptively quiet and confused voice as she strode down the stairs to stand in front of her brother, “What the fuck is wrong with  _ me? _ Me!” she giggled and it sounded slightly manic as it drifted through the little yard.  “Nothings wrong with me, Ig.  Nothing at all.”

“You ratted!” Iggy yelled, looking surprised at his own voice.  Mickey tensed and even Colin took a few steps closer, pausing at the gate.  Their eyes met for a second but were quickly drawn back to their siblings as Iggy put a hand on Mandy’s shoulder and Mandy slapped it away.  

“Don’t you fucking touch me,” she hissed, taking a step forward.  A crack of uncertain conflicted contrition streaked across Iggy’s face and he took another step back.  He was struggling with this, Mickey suddenly realized, between his old neighborhood mindset and bone deep desire to protect his little sister. 

Said little sister looked about ready to beat someone down.  

“You talked to Tony, right Iggy?” she spit out.

The shaggy haired man nodded, still tense, “Yeah, Mands, but…”

She shut him up with the flick of her wrist in his face before looking around him to the fourth Milkovich, still hovering at the gate, “And you?  You know, too.”

Colin said nothing, but his eyes were bright and miserable.  He held none of Iggy’s aggression and genuine concern was written all over his face.  He nodded simply, holding Mandy’s gaze as he did.  Mickey could see Mandy’s shoulders stiffen and for a second he thought that this might actually be the thing that made her cry.  Fury and judgement were enemies she was used to but she’s never really had to hone weapons against compassion.  Bristling a little, she turned her attention back to the safer target.”

“So you know what he did and you’re still coming at me with this shit?  Really, Iggy?  You’re asking what the fuck is wrong with me!  What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Mickey could see his brother wilt under the weight of those words.  He was losing his conviction, losing his self-righteous anger.  Hadn’t even really taken that long.  He was still a stubborn ass Milkovich though and Mickey could see him pulling together the remaining scraps of his outrage for one last offensive.

“You don’t turn on your family.”

Iggy’s face screwed up in a wince the second those words left his mouth.  Mickey glanced down at Mandy, trying to gauge her reaction, but she didn’t look like she was going to need any help handling this.  Her face was perfectly calm even as her fingers curled into fists against her hips.  Hugging the bannister close, Mickey slid down and sat on the top step.  It was a childhood defense mechanism, to make himself small and invisible when the screaming started, but he didn’t have time to dwell on the implications of that before Mandy let loose.

“Okay, Iggy, no I get it,” she spit, staring up at him with disdain.  He backed up a step, his eyes nervous at the change of tone, “Of course, you’re right.  You gotta be loyal to the family.  But let me ask you this,” she asked in a deceptively calm tone, “Where the fuck was his loyalty, huh,” she jabbed a finger in Iggy’s narrow chest, pushing him back until he bumped into Colin’s shoulder and they both stumbled.  Their eyes were huge and uncertain but neither of them said a word.  “What the fuck did he ever do for his kids, huh.  I’ll fucking tell you.  He fucking raped me, Iggy!  Do you fucking understand what that means?  I’m his kid and he still put his dick inside me.  He put a baby that would have been my kid but also would’ve been my fucking brother  _ inside of me,  _ you fuck!”

Mandy was full-on screaming now, her face red and her eyes on fire.  Her brothers’ faces had paled in tandem and both suddenly couldn’t meet her eyes.  

“And him,” she muttered furiously, gesturing to where Mickey still sat silent on the steps, “Do you realize that he beat the shit out of him at  _ gunpoint _ , pistol-whipped him until he was concussed?  Forced him to fuck a whore at fucking gunpoint?  Do you realize that?  And you want to sit here and lecture us about loyalty?”

They stared at each other for a full minute, until Iggy deflated and Colin turned and walked in a circle, running his fingers crazily through his curly hair. 

“Mands,” he said carefully, keeping his eyes fixed on his feet, “I’m not saying…”

“You’re not saying shit,” she interjected, shutting him up immediately, “You’re not saying shit to me or to Mickey.  I have no loyalty to Terry fucking Milkovich anymore.  I hope he rots in hell after he rots in prison.  So you two have two fucking choices, okay?  Get on board with it or get the hell out of our faces and stay gone.” 

She turned abruptly, stomping up the porch stairs and slamming the door behind her,

Colin stared after her, and Mickey could see him turning her words over in his head.  Iggy was still standing in shock by the fence, gape mouthed and overwhelmed.  Striding past him, Colin mounted the stairs and dropped onto the step next to  Mickey. 

“You feel the same,” he asked his little brother, keeping his voice soft.

“Yeah,” came the short simple reply.

He nodded, swallowing hard.  Across the tiny yard, Iggy met his eyes.  This was new to them, this concept of choice.  It had always been the Milkovichs against everyone, but they could both see the bullshit in that approach.  They had to pick; their brother and sister and a new mindset, or their piece of shit father and the old code.

Standing up, Colin collected the paper takeout menu that had fluttered out of Mandy’s hand during the tirade.  He turned towards his little brother, who still sat, silent and distant, on the step.

“I’m gonna go grab some pizzas, okay,” he asked quietly, “You want sausage?”  
Mickey looked up.  Colin was staring down at him but the inquisitiveness in his expression wasn’t limited to pizza toppings.  He looked as exhausted as Mickey felt and he suddenly remembered that they were victims in this shit, too.  And they’d always had his back.  Meeting Colin’s eyes, he mustered the energy for a snarky little scowl.

The relief on Colin’s face was enormous. 

“Yeah, sure,” he answered quietly.  He paused for a second, “Mands’ll want pineapple.”

“Nasty.”

“Yeah.”

Colin sighed, “Alright man, pineapple, too.”

His little brother gave him a nod.  

Colin dragged Iggy with him when he left to pick up their dinner, probably to give their shell-shocked sibling a chance to collect himself.  Mickey appreciated it.  He didn’t think he could handle any more discussion right now.  Behind him, the door opened a crack.

“They gone?”

“They went to pick up pizza.”

A few moments of heavy silence followed.

“Colin got you pineapple.”

Over his shoulder, he could hear a sharp intake of breath.

“Is that supposed to fix everything?”

He shrugged, glancing back at her.  “It’s a start.”

They ate on the porch, in neutral territory, by unspoken mutual agreement.  Iggy stayed slumped on the bottom step, quiet and contrite.  No one spoke but the silence was comfortable as they ate, sipping beers and watching the cars drive by.  

Mandy finally broke the silence when she slapped another piece on a paper plate and pressed it into Mickey’s hands.  “You need to eat more,” she informed him sternly, “You’re too thin.”  He didn’t argue, which seemed to surprise her.  He just took the plate and nodded.

On the other side of the stairs, Colin opened up Mandy’s weird Hawaiian shit and dropped another slice on a plate. Meeting her eyes, he held it out. 

“Take your own advice.”

They stared each other down for a moment, and Mickey could feel the tension rising again.  At the bottom of the step, Iggy looked nervous but Colin’s face was unyielding as he raised an eyebrow.  Mickey could see the stiff set of Mandy’s shoulders, but her chin was quivering and her eyes were shiny as she finally took the plate.  Colin nodded and took a sip of his beer as the strain in the air slowly broke up around them again.  He let his boot bump against Iggy’s shoulder, knocking the open-mouthed fish look off his brother’s face as he stared out at the passing cars.  

Mandy ate. 

Mickey did, too.

It was good pizza.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, Lip and Mandy bury the hatchet and give us some insight into how Ian and Mick are doing. We learn a little more about the progress of the trial. There will be more Ian and Mickey face time soon but this was tagged slow burn for a reason.


	7. Listen, Dammit, We Will Win

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lip and Mandy have a long overdue conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really struggled over whether or not to cut this chapter. I ultimately decided to include it because I think it provides some essential foundation for the rest of the story. Also, I think that if Mickey is going to be able to heal, then some of the circumstances in his life need to change and that involves a lot of people. Lip and Mandy have a lot of baggage and they need to deal with it. Sooooo, I left this in.
> 
> This is the last chapter that isn't primarily told from Mickey or Ian's POV.

**June 2019**

 

The tabletop was shiny and perfectly smooth.  He could actually see his reflection in the lacquer.  Lifting a hand, Lip ran his fingers over the surface.  It was a huge table, and made of solid mahogany.  It must have cost a fortune.  Why the hell did the DA need to drop that much taxpayer money on a boardroom table?

He leaned back in his seat and grimaced.  He sounded like Frank and he didn’t want to deflect like his loser sperm donor.  His anger had nothing to do with a table.  It had to do with the difficult shit he was being forced to discuss while sitting at it.

He sat alone on his side, armed with nothing but the water glass he hadn’t touched.  Three people faced him.  One was some paralegal, there to take notes and pass papers. Another was the blonde ADA that was assisting on the case.  Lip had missed his name and didn’t want to ask it.  The guy was smart, crafty, and far to assessing for Lip’s taste.  Asking would be a vulnerability and he felt a little too raw and exposed as it was.  So he shut up and didn’t worry about the guy’s name.  He had bigger problems.

The source of that vulnerability sat directly across from him, flipping through notes, scribbling on a pad, occasionally texting furiously on her phone.  

Woman loved her phone.  

“So, if I’m understanding you correctly, Mr. Gallagher, it easily could’ve been your baby. In fact, we can never really be certain, due to you, and your brother’s assistance in the speedy termination of the pregnancy.”

Jesus  _ fucking  _ Christ.

Gracy was an expert in the art of the passive aggressive delivery.  Lip had always thought his own talents were pretty respectable but he was in the presence of a real master now.  He could feel his teeth gritting and his hands clenching at the crude insinuations and he fixed his eyes on the water glass, fighting to keep his cool.  His temper had improved considerably over the past two years as he’d been forced to acknowledge and confront his own issues and failings, but this line of questioning was seriously testing his self-control.

So far this morning, they’d covered his family’s living conditions for the past twenty years, the reasons behind his expulsion from school, every nuance of his drinking problem, and every single arrest on his juvie record.  He’d pushed back against the last one since they were supposed to be sealed but Gracy had just shaken her head as the blonde smirked.  

“Nothing is out of reach,” she’d muttered, flipping through more of her file, “and just because I can object to it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be prepared for it to be brought up.”

Then, of course, they’d moved on to his relationship with Mandy, pouring over it in excruciating detail.  How they met, when they start hooking up, the lengths that she’d gone to to help him.  He’d stared hard at the floor through that whole segment.  Gracy didn’t know the whole story there and that was one thing he’d never tell her.  He’d never be able to reconcile with what Mandy had done to Karen, but he hated himself a little for how dumb he’d been.  Of course, Mandy was willing to do practically anything to stay with him.  She’d seen him as a possible escape from the Milkovich hell house.  

He’d been such a prick to her.  Hadn’t she deserved some fucking support, with everything she’d tried to do for him while he childishly asserted his own right to piss away his mind and the opportunities it could’ve provided?  Maybe, but did that mean it had been his job to save her?  Who the fuck even knew the answers to these questions?  The edges of responsibility were always blurry in South Chicago.  

Gracy had chosen that moment to insinuate that he and Mandy were both whores.

“Mr. Gallagher, do you understand this process,” she was demanding from behind him now, still seated among her files.  He was staring pointedly out the window, having stormed away from the table after her last statement.  Balling a fist, he leaned against the glass, spitefully glad he was making marks on it until he realized that it definitely wasn’t going to be Gracy or the blonde who cleaned them.  

He heard a small squeak behind him, then the clack of professional, no nonsense heels on the expensive hardwood flooring.  

“May I call you Philip,” she asked from close behind him, calmly and with a hint of compassion in her voice.  He grimaced at the question.  He didn’t want her to call him anything, didn’t want to talk to her, didn’t want to be here but he needed to man the fuck up.  This sucked but he did understand what the attorneys were doing.  They were trying to rile him, throwing everything at him they could so that the defense couldn’t possibly throw anything worse.  And they were doing it so they could lock up a monster who wanted to kill people he loved.

He drew in a deep breath, mentally berated himself, and turned around.

“It’s Lip.”

“Excuse me?”

“Lip.  You can call me Lip.  Or Philip or...whatever.  I mean, call me whatever you want, okay.” He ran a hand through his hair.  “I’m sorry.”  He met Gracy’s eyes for a moment, but glanced away from their probing nature as quickly as he could, walking back to the table and sitting down.  “I’m alright.  Can we keep going.”

The older woman stared at him skeptically as she returned to her seat. “That’s the reaction I’m trying to avoid, you know,” she replied curtly.  “The defense will be more than happy to play on your weaknesses and exploit the protectiveness you all feel for each other.  It would be helpful to the case if you didn’t rise to the bait.”  Leaning back in her chair, she glared at him. “I can tell you’re accustomed to being the smartest person in the room, aren’t you.”

He looked away, “Not really.  Not anymore.”

“Well, let’s try to put some of that newfound humility to use then, shall we?  Do not fall into traps.”

Lip drummed his fingertips across the tabletop again, frustrated by her word, but she ignored him.  

“The worst that any of you could do right now would be to underestimate Terry Milkovich, Philip.  He may have never gone to college,” she paused to fix him with a knowing stare, “but he is intelligent and manipulative and highly intuitive in the worst ways.  You have personally witnessed how he can get inside people’s heads. And his lawyer is no better.  Man is an absolute snake.”

Lip looked up at her, uneasy surprise on his face,  “I thought he had a public defender.”

“He doesn’t.  A man like Terry Milkovich has some favors to call him.  The lawyer was one of them.”

“How good is this guy?  And do Ian and Mandy know about this?” he paused for a second before adding, “Does Mickey?  Because if Terry gets off, they’re in real fucking danger!”

A look of aggravation passed over Gracy’s face but before she could speak, the blonde had leaned forward and inserted himself into their conversation, speaking in a calmer, even voice.  “They know.  And we understand the risks.”

He and Gracy held a quick conversation with their eyes before she gestured to the paralegal.  “I need some files,” she said brusquely as she hurried out of the room with the other woman in tow.  

Lip eyed them as they headed out of the room before turning back to the other man who was still seated across from him.  He was leaning back in his chair with a wry, somewhat amused expression on his face  

“It’s Peterson.”

“What?”

The guy snorted, “My name, smartass.  You don’t know it.”

Lip could feel himself blush with a combination of embarrassment and anger but Peterson didn’t look bothered as he continued on.

“She’s right.  You’re used to being the smartest person in the room.  So am I,” he paused for a second, “So is she.  And she’s smart enough to realize that she usually comes across as a complete bitch, which is why she lets me handle this stuff.”

Lip snorted, “So you’re our handler?”

“Sure, among other things.  Why not?  I’m good at making you feel better about scary shit.  I handle your ex-girlfriend and your brother and they’re happy to let me do it.  And yes,” he continued, holding a hand up before Lip could even ask, “I handle Mickey, too.”

“You expect me to believe that Mickey Milkovich needs handling?”

Peterson’s gaze darkened a little at that comment.  “Yes, he does.  The man who risked his freedom and is still risking his life to protect his sister does need handling.  He needs support.” He drummed his fingers against a file on the tabletop before shooting Lip a hard stare.  “We’re asking a lot of all of you but I think it’s fair to say we’re asking the most of him.”

“Does Mickey think I hate him or something?”

“I couldn’t tell you.  He doesn’t talk much.”

“Well, let’s be clear.  I don’t.  He tried to take care of my brother.  He tried really, really hard.  And he got a pretty raw deal out of that.”

“Ian’s mentioned that.”

Lip nodded, “Yeah, well, all I’m trying to say is that I don’t hate the guy.  I actually straight up respect him,” he paused, “And I’m glad he’s got someone handling him.”

“You all need some handling,” Peterson pointed out, leaning forward and flipping through some of his notes again, “Getting back to our point, you need to let us kick you around in here.  It will immunize you to this.  Otherwise, the first place it will happen will be the stand and we can’t afford any fuck ups up there.” He looked up, “You’re smart. You’ve already figured out that the defense has no real case to present.  The only chance they have is jury nullification and for that, they need to make all of you look like pieces of shit.  They’re going to drag everyone of you through the mud publicly and you need to be able to handle it.  Because if he get off…”

“I know,” Lip cut in,”Believe me, you don’t have to tell me what happens.  I know he’ll come after everybody.”

“Everybody,” Peterson repeated, leaning forward against the table. “This guy has a long kill record.  It won’t just be Mickey he goes after.  You know he’ll target Ian and Mandy.  Mickey’s ex-wife and their kid, the rest of his own children, they’d all be in danger.  And you.  Definitely.  He hates your brother but you’re high on his shit list, too. 

He leaned back into his chair as Lip digested the truth in those words.  He’d known for years that Terry Milkovich was a dangerous piece of shit but even with that knowledge, he had to admit he’d underestimated the guy.  Peterson was right.  If Terry got off, his goal would be to pick them all off until he got them  all and the list would be long.  

He couldn’t risk that.

Meeting Peterson’s eyes, he offered a nod.

“Good.” Peterson stood up as he began collecting his paperwork.  “But I think we should call it a day here, don’t you?  We’ve still got time to get all of you prepped.  We can pace ourselves.”

Lip nodded dimly.  As he headed for the door, Peterson put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

“Listen, I’m not going to pretend that I know what this is like for all of you.  I don’t get it.  I don’t know what it’s like to have lived through the shit you all have been describing to me.  I do know two things, though.  I know that Terry Milkovich is a piece of trash who needs to spend the rest of his life behind bars and I know how to beat his lawyer’s strategy.  And I think we can both agree on those things, right?”

Lip considered the lawyer’s words carefully as he stared down at the hardwood floor.  Yeah, he could agree on those things.  And he could even admit he was relieved that this was in Gracy and Peterson’s hands. They did know what they were doing.

And they weren’t the jackasses he’d originally thought they were.

He was still mulling over the conversation at the elevator bank.  He was so lost in his own thoughts that he almost bumped into the person who was exiting.

“Mandy?”

“Fuck,” she spit out, jumping a foot before sheepishly glancing around.  She turned back to him but didn’t quite meet his eyes, “Sorry.  Shit.  I didn’t see you.”  She glanced up at him quickly but didn’t hold his gaze, “I’m always such a wreck when I have to come in here.”

“You have an interview?” he asked quickly, hearing the tremor in his voice.  If she noticed, she said nothing, just glanced down the hallway towards the reception desk.

“No.  Just need to sign some papers.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

She took a step down the hall, turning over her shoulder to say goodbye but he stopped her, reaching out for her hand. 

“Are you free after the papers?”

She looked at him warily, guarding her expression.  He couldn’t exactly blame her for that.

“I don’t know,” she said carefully.  “What do you need?”

“Nothing,” he answered quickly, releasing her hand as she turned back towards him.  “I just thought, maybe, we could grab some lunch and catch up.” He could see the hesitance creeping over her features. “I just want to know you’re okay.”

“Ian hasn’t told you I’m okay?”

“I’d rather know myself.  And Ian...Ian’s distracted right now.”

She snorted at that comment but nodded.  “You want to grab lunch, we can do that.  But it’s your treat, asshole.” she called over her shoulder as she walked down the hall towards the receptionist.

It was over an hour later before they finally made it to a sandwich shop a block from the DA’s office.  They were both starving and they dug into their lunch for at least three minutes before they began speaking.  If Lip was being honest, though, he had to admit that he didn’t quite know how to start this conversation.  There was so much unresolved tension between them.  

So he settled for the most neutral topic he could pick.

“Ian’s been telling me about your new job.”

The smile she offered him was bright and genuine.  It was nice to see it.

“I’ve been there for a little over a year now,” she explained.  “I love it.”  She looked at him out of the corner of her eye but she looked amused rather than coy. “You want to ask how I got into this, don’t you.”

He felt some red creep into his cheeks, “No, I...I mean, I always thought you were smart enough to do anything.”

“Yeah, I know that, but you still want to know how I went from being an escort to an office drone.”

“Mandy, I”m not…”

“Because I’m not embarrassed.  I got away from my house and then got away from that piece of shit I ditched in Indiana…”

“Mandy!” He instinctively put a hand over hers and couldn’t help but hold on against her feeble attempts to pull away.  “Mandy,” He stated with more insistence in his tone as he slid his hand down and interlocked their fingers, “For fucks sake, do you really think I’m judging you?  Me? The guy who drank and fucked and generally assholed away an amazing opportunity?  One that was largely handed to me by you?” He pressed his other palm against their clasped hands and gave them a gentle squeeze. “I can’t judge anybody, okay?  I have no right.”

They both sat in silence for a few moments, sliding their hands apart to pick nervously at their lunches while contemplating each other’s words.  

“Alright, I’ll bite,” he finally said, mixing some humor into his voice, “How did you get involved in this?”

She smiled.  “It was random.  I had a client who was a high level executive, and before you ask, I’m not telling you his name.  We had confidentiality contracts.  So, he was preparing for  a big presentation and one morning, while he was getting ready to leave, he asked me if I’d read what he’d written out loud to him.  So, first, I started reworking all of his grammar…”

“What is it with you and grammar?”

“I like the order and structure of it.  Anyway, I made some suggestions about wording and then he asked me what I thought of some other parts and we ended up spending most of the morning rewriting the entire presentation so that it focused on the potential growth of the plan he was proposing instead of the weaknesses of their current direction and…”she trailed off for a moment.  “Sorry, I get really into this.”

She looked embarrassed but her enthusiasm made him smile.  “I can see that.  But that’s great.”

Mandy nodded.  “So, he helped me get an interview and the rest is history.  Oh, and I get to start college courses for a business degree once I’m there eighteen months.  They reimburse half the tuition and run the classes right in the building.”

“That’s awesome!”

“Yeah,” she grinned again and picked up her sandwich. “Ian says you’re doing well in school.  The Chicago campus has a pretty good engineering program, right?  My supervisor’s daughter graduated from there.”

He nodded.  “I’m just relieved they gave me a chance.  I have mandatory meetings with a faculty advisor each week to make sure I’m doing okay.  And don’t laugh at the irony,” he muttered lightly at her smirk. “She’s in her fifties, completely brilliant, and has absolutely no patience for any bullshit. And I live at the house and go to all my meetings.  I’m not fucking it up this time.”

She nodded, swallowing. “How’s the girlfriend?”

“Good,” he answered honestly, “We’re taking it slow, like everything else.  Trying to make good choices.” He met her eyes, “How’s the boyfriend?”

“Good, too.  He’s been pretty incredible through all of this.  He’s really normal but he also doesn’t scare easily.”

“Sounds like what you need.” Lip picked at his own sandwich for a moment, “How’s the rest of your family holding up?”

She sighed and stayed silent for a moment. “It’s getting better.  Colin is suddenly ridiculously protective.  Iggy...he’s adjusting.  He was mad we went to the cops.  I knew he would be.  But he seems to be getting it now.”

“He was mad?  What the fuck did he expect you to do?”

She sighed again, a little louder this time, and Lip took a deep breath himself, mentally telling himself to chill out. 

“It wasn’t like he was on Terry’s side but he expected me to tell them so they could take care of the problem themselves.”

“He wanted to kill Terry?”

“Yeah, pretty much.  I mean, you know how it is.  You  _ don’t  _ go to the cops, ever, right.  Especially if you’re in my family.  That was the golden rule.  You handle your own shit.  But I’m not doing that anymore.  I’m not living in that world.  I don’t need any more of my brothers in jail either.  Iggy’s having a hard time with that but Colin gets it.” she stared down at the table for a moment. “So does Mickey.”

The name sat heavily in the air between them and Lip found himself thinking back on Peterson’s comments about his brother’s ex; that he was struggling, that he was risking everything.  

“I heard Mickey’s working at Trevor’s shelter?”

Mandy nodded slowly but her gaze had wandered to the big plate glass window at the front of the store.  “He is.  Ian got him the job,” she glanced back for a second, “but you probably knew that already.”

He nodded, trying to keep his features neutral.  “Yeah, I did.  Ian talks about him a lot.  Worries about him, too.”

Mandy head bobbed slightly as she listened to his words.  Her lips were pursed and tense.  “He does, I know.  He doesn’t have to, though. Mickey’s going to be okay.”

“Is he?  Good, because Peterson seems think…”

“Peterson shouldn’t be talking to anyone about Mickey.  And I shouldn’t be talking to you about him!  Jesus, Lip, I’m not even sure what I can say to you about this shit.  You don’t even like Mickey.”

Lip let his head fall back against the chair.  He stared up at the ceiling, feeling frustrated but unsure about where to direct the feeling.  “Why does everyone think I hate Mickey?”

Beside him, Mandy snorted, “Really? You’re kidding, right.”

“No, I’m not kidding.  I don’t hate Mickey.  I respect him for everything he’s tried to do for Ian.” He pressed his thumb between his eyes as his head started to pound, “I probably treated him like shit but let’s be honest; I was treating everyone like shit then.  So no, I don’t hate Mickey.  In fact, I really hope things work out so that he can rebuild his life without your shithead dad anywhere near him for once.” He picked up his barely touched iced tea and took a few sips, breathing carefully.  Beside him, Mandy stared pensively down at the table top.  

“Do you think they’re going to get back together?” he asked honestly.

“Mickey and Ian?” she asked without raising her eyes.”Who knows.” She paused for a moment, as if weighing her words. “I hope not.”

He looked up at that, genuinely surprised or a moment.  “Really?”

“Yeah.  I’m trying not to repeat the same mistakes. I don’t think they should either.”

“You think they were a mistake?”

“Don’t you?”

He frowned.  “At times, but a lot of that was outside of their control.” she nodded slightly at that but gave no other answer.  “I guess in the end, it doesn’t really matter what we think.  They always seem to choose each other.”

Mandy snorted again, but this time there was real derision behind the sound.  “I’m not sure of that,” she said simply, “Mickey is keeping his distance.  He hasn’t seen Ian since he got out.  And he’s...it’s hard to explain.  He’s different now.  

“Fair enough.  He deserves whatever space he needs.  I think Ian will still choose him though.”

“No.”

“What?”

“I said ‘no’.  Ian never chooses him.  Or takes risks for him.”

Now it was Lip who snorted. “That’s not true!”

“Oh yeah?” she asked, facing him again, “Name me one time.”

He felt his mouth hanging open as he ran through every piece of history he could remember between the two.  He’d always felt like there was a lot of equity between Mickey and his brother.  Actually, yeah, he’d really always believed that Ian was too good for the youngest Milkovich brother, the neighborhood thug.  But Mickey had risked so much and tried so hard to take care of Ian, to help him, to love him unconditionally.  Ian had thrown so much of it back in his face.

“Ian’s in a much better place now,” he responded weakly, looking away from the knowing look on Mandy’s face.  

“Yeah, he got better without Mickey. All the more reason for them to stay apart.”

“Fuck, Mandy, that’s not what I’m saying.”

“I know,” she responded, her voice tired, “I know okay.  I just...he’s so quiet and hesitant about everything now.  He’s practically agoraphobic, won’t leave the house except to go to the shelter.  He’s lost a lot of weight and he sleeps all the time.  He really won’t see anybody.  Ian has been my friend for a long time, Lip, but Mickey is my brother and I just can’t support that again.  It’s too much of a fucking risk!”

“You’re scared for him.”

“For him, for me.  I’m scared for you and Ian and Svet and my brothers.  I’m scared for Fiona and Deb and her kid.  I’m Terry Milkovich’s daughter.  Mickey is his son.  We’ve committed the cardinal sin against him by turning him into the cops.  By testifying against him in court.  If he gets off then...”

“Then nothing.”

She huffed.  “What the fuck are you…”

“No,” he interrupted, anger in his voice, “Nothing will happen to you, okay.  We try it your way because you’re right. We all need to stop living by those rules.  We try it the right way first.  But if that doesn’t work, we do it Iggy’s way.  We kill the fucker before he hurts anyone we love.”

She smiled but tears were already falling down her cheeks.  “You’re going to kill Terry, Lip?”

“Yes,” he spit, hearing the aggression in his voice, “To keep the people I love safe, I’d shoot that bastard in a heartbeat.  You shouldn’t doubt that for a second.”

“I don’t.  I mean, I just don’t know what to think.  You’re not all that southside anymore, Lip Gallagher.”

“You’re right,” he nodded.  “I’m not.  You’re not.  Ian, Mickey, Fiona,  _ Colin.   _ Hell, the south side isn’t that southside anymore.  But if we need it, we dig it back up.  And use it to bury his ass.”

Reaching over, he took her shoulders and pulled her around to face him.

“Okay?”

He stared into her tear streaked face as she shook her head and wept. 

“Mandy!”

Her eyes finally met his, as she choked down a sob and blinked back more tears.

“Okay?”

Her head nodded slowly as she finally whispered, “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Ian realizes that sometimes when you love someone, you have to set them free.


	8. Just Leave Me Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reconnection and realization

**Late June, 2019**

“You planning on eating that or are you just going to enjoy staring at it?”

“What?” Ian looked up from his lunch and blinked across the table.  His ex-boyfriend and informal self-help guru was leaning back in his own seat, a knowing little half-smile on his lips.  

“You’re thinking about him again, aren’t you?”

For a moment, Ian considered lying, but really, what was the point?  Trevor was many things, and stubborn as hell was one of them.  Ian usually appreciated this. Trevor wasn’t intimidated by him at all.  He challenged him and Ian knew that he’d grown a lot because of this relationship.  There were times though, when he wished to hell that Trevor was better at taking a hint.

This was one of those times.

Yeah, he was thinking about Mickey.  He was pretty much always thinking about Mickey.  He hadn’t seen the other man since he’d been released from prison and that was almost a month ago.  He’d tried to be respectful and keep his distance.  He’d tried not to push.  He’d figured that Mandy had his number and Mickey would know to get it if he wanted to contact him.  He’d been determined not to force the first move.

But Mickey never called.

Ian and Mandy texted regularly but she was always cagey with info about her brother and Ian couldn’t really bring himself to push her either.  She was under too much stress as it was.  But she wasn’t the only one of his friends to have information.  Trevor saw Mickey almost every day.

“You want to ask me about him, don’t you?” the chestnut haired man asked as he played around with his salad fork.

Ian didn’t raise his eyes.  “You think you know me so well?” he asked lightly.

“Yeah,” came the simple reply.  There was no judgment in Trevor’s eyes, only honest concern and he let himself lean back and consider his answer for a moment.  Of course he wanted to ask.  He wanted to beg anyone he could for scraps of information but he was also painfully aware that Mickey wasn’t reaching out to him.  If he wanted Ian to know how he was doing, he’d give him a call right.

But no, it wasn’t that simple.  Mickey had always been quiet, restrained and polite during the few weeks Ian had been visiting him in in lockup and  _ that  _ had honestly scared the shit out of him because while Mickey Milkovich was many things, restrained sure as hell wasn’t one of them.  Mandy had warned him but words hadn’t been able to explain just how dug in Mickey really was. Ian had no idea what to do.  Whenever her brother’s name did come up in conversation, Mandy was always quick to jump in and assure him that Mickey was going to be alright, but Mandy was guilt-ridden and terrified herself.  

Ian was tearing himself apart over this.  He could feel it and the people who knew him best could see it.  Lip had already started asking questions.  Now Trevor was offering him an in.  Did he want to ask how Mickey was?  Was it going to help anything?

The sound of Trevor’s voice pulled him back to the present.  “You still with me?” he asked, and now Ian could see the genuine concern that the amused little half smile had been covering.  “I don’t want to get you all worked up or anything, man, but I know you’re worried about him.  And honestly, I kind of need to ask you some questions, too.”

This got Ian’s attention. “Like what?” he asked, worry driving all thoughts of distance out of his head. 

Trevor sighed lightly and Ian could see him searching for words. 

“Nothing huge.  I mean, all other things aside, I really owe you for suggesting that he do the work around the center.  He knows what he’s doing and he doesn’t try to fuck around and cheat us out of money.”

“He wouldn’t.  He can be a real asshole but he’s not a piece of shit.”

“Yeah, well, I know it wouldn’t surprise you how many people pull shit like that.  He doesn’t and he gets stuff done and the kids are comfortable around him.  I mean, they barely notice him, he’s so quiet.

And that’s the thing.  You’ve told me a lot about him and the person you’ve described isn’t the guy I’ve got working with me right now.  What I can tell you is that in my line of work, you learn how to recognize the symptoms of things like avoidance PTSD and depression.”

Ian could feel his own tension rising.  He’d fisted a hand and wrapped his other palm around it, pressing them against his lips as he listened to Trevor speak.  “You think it’s really that bad?” he asked, nervous energy bleeding into his voice.

“Ian, I’m guessing here, and I’m definitely not qualified to make real diagnoses, but I’ve seen this a lot.  You know that.  And when I compare the person who comes to work every day with the person from all your stories, the person who pulled some of those stunts and who did all the things he did when you got sick, I just think it has to be something more than just regular fear and nerves about the trial.”

They sat in a silence for a moment, the typical restaurant din the only noise as Ian rested his clenched hands on the table in front of him and stared at him hard.

“This is my fault,” he said quietly.

“Because you didn’t go with him?”

He snorted, mirthless laughter escaping his mouth as tears pooled in the corners of his eyes, “There is so much more than that.  I mean, yes, that’s a part of it.  Mexico was tricky.  But I’m really a piece of shit because I knew deep down I wouldn’t go but I didn’t admit it to myself because I wanted to feel that rush of excitement one last time.”  Across the table, he could see Trevor’s eyes assessing him and he looked down again quickly.  Trevor was too good at seeing shit and Ian couldn’t bear it quite yet.

“You know, if I’d have just told him no in Chicago, he would have been okay. When he was about to leave, he was calm, resigned.  But instead, I led him on, let him build up his hope, and bailed on him at the last, worst moment.  I mean, who the fuck does that to someone they love?”

“So why’d you do it.”

“Fuck, I don’t…”

Trevor rolled his neck in annoyance, fixing him with an angry stare. “Ian, you never want to talk about this, even though it’s obvious to everyone who knows you that it’s been weighing on you for more than a year now.  You need to, okay.  It doesn’t have to be with me.  Talk to Lip or your doctor but fuck, man, you need to talk to someone.”

He could feel the tears as they finally overflowed and streamed down his face, soaking the edge of his t-shirt.  They were sitting off to one side, mostly out of view, but he could still the strange looks he was getting from the other patrons.  He grabbed a napkin and rubbed furiously at his face, breathing deeply to calm down.

“Mandy says that the worst thing I ever did to Mickey was get him to hope.” he explained in a quiet voice, toying nervously with the napkin, “Do you really want to know the truth?”

Trevor’s voice never wavered.  “I think the truth would help you.”

“Even if it hurts you?”  
The other man smiled and looked down.  “Ian, you’re my friend.  You’ve been there for me, listened to me rant and cry over shit I can’t control.  We dated for a while, tried some new shit together, but really, we’ve always been better as friends.  So let me be your friend.  I’m not going to get offended, okay.”

“Jesus, fuck, okay,” He took a deep breath.

“I’ve told you a lot about Terry.  He’s a violent, homophobic piece of shit.  I knew he put his kids through hell.  I knew he’d raped his own daughter a bunch of times.  Most people would think I was nuts for not going to the police about this shit, but that just wasn’t the way it was done in my neighborhood.  I mean, Mandy said it wasn’t a big deal, so Lip and I just said ‘okay’ and helped her get an abortion and left it alone.  I never even mentioned it to Mickey.”  He looked up from the shredded napkin, but Trevor’s face was calm and free of judgment.

“So, Mickey and I were fucking around for a pretty long time before it ever got serious.  We were just closeted fuck buddies but I wanted more.  I pushed for more.  He was scared to death but I just kept pushing.  I mean, I told you how he ended up back in juvie after the whole shit show with Frank catching us in the store.  I could see how much it scared him that his father might find out but I just didn’t take it seriously.  Even after everything that his father did.  I mean, the fucker pulled a gun, beat the shit out of us and made me watch while he fucking forced Mickey to have sex with a fucking hooker…”

“ _ Ian!” _ Trevor cut him off, glancing around the room.  Ian followed his gaze but fortunately, the restaurant was pretty empty.  Trevor turned back to him, his features marred with concern.  “Dude, I want you to talk but you need to keep it the fuck down.” He leaned a little closer, holding Ian’s eyes. “I get it, okay.  He was right to be scared.  You feel like you didn’t validate his feelings.”

Ian snorted.  “That’s a way of putting it, I guess.”  Leaning back in his chair, he let his gaze drift to the window, taking in the people who passed by.  He wondered if their lives felt mundane and ordinary.  He wondered if they appreciated it.

“I don’t want to retell all this shit,” he explained quietly, letting his eyes linger on the window, “But Mandy’s right.  I pushed him until he came out to everyone.  After that, he really thought things were going to be better.  At least, he hoped they would, but I fucked that all up.”

“You got diagnosed as bipolar, Ian.”

“Yeah, and that’s not my fault, but I resisted the diagnosis and didn’t get help, even though I’d watched my mother do the same things.  I knew what that did to the people who cared about her and I made the same choices anyway.”

“You were seventeen.”

“By hood standards, I’d been an adult for years.” he let himself glance back at his friend, “Did I ever tell you that Svetlana had to pay me to go visit him in prison.  That he begged me to lie to him about waiting for him?”

“Ian..”

“No, you were asking me why I went with him to the border.  The truth is that it’s the other half of the reason why I got with you.  I’m not trying to be a dick but that’s the truth.  I was with you because you were stable and rationale and smart and I want that so bad.  I want stability.  But I left with him because I want  _ him. _  All I want is a stable life with Mickey.  One without the other isn’t enough.”

Ian carefully examined Trevor’s face at that confession but the other man was nodding with a considering look on his face.  He didn’t look hurt.  “That makes a lot of sense,” he said, meeting Ian’s eyes, “but what about now?  You’re both here.  He’s free again.  A lot of the crazy shit is behind you.  Why not try for the stability thing together?”

“Because I don’t fucking deserve it!” Ian spit out, feeling fresh tears bloom in his eyes, “After all the selfish shit I pulled because I had to have my happy ending, I don’t fucking deserve it.  Hell, I don’t deserve this kind of forgiveness from you.  I  _ definitely  _ don’t deserve it from him.”  The napkin was falling to pieces now.  He wiped at his eyes furiously with the back of his hand.

“What if it’s what he wants?”

Ian shook his head.  “He doesn’t.  After Terry, nothing scares him more than me.”  

“Did Mandy tell you that?’

“Not in so many words.”

Now it was Trevor who leaned back in his seat with an appraising look on his face.  “I don’t think Mandy or Mickey are in the healthiest frames of mind. I mean, hell, you aren’t either.  Maybe now isn’t the time to be shaking things up like this.” He paused for a moment, and Ian could see him measuring his words again.  “Do you love him?”

“Yes,” he answered without hesitation.

“Okay, then love him, man.  That doesn’t mean trying to dive into a relationship.  In fact, if you love him, don’t be selfish about it.  Just support him however you can.  Do things that are helpful to him.  If that means giving him space, then give him space.  But you need to try.”

“He hasn’t called me.”

“So call him.”

“I don’t want to push him.”

“Ian, people who are depressed might think they want to be left alone but they’re not typically in the right place to be making those decisions.”

“So you think I should push?”

“No, but I think you should offer.  Offer to be there.  Make sure they can see that you’re going to be a presence.”

“He thinks I always bail on him.  Mandy thinks so, too.”  He paused for a second, “They think that because it’s true.”

Trevor smiled, reaching over and stealing the last few of his fries. “Dude, you and I both know that you can change.  You’ve done it before.  If you don’t want to be an asshole anymore, then don’t be an asshole.”

Ian was on duty from two pm to two am that night and the shift was busy enough to distract him from the discussion for the most part.  But as they headed back towards the station after a quick drop-off, he let himself consider Trevor’s words and how well the melded with Mandy’s.  They’d both said the same thing.  If he didn’t want to be a selfish ass then he had to make sure that whatever he did, he wasn’t doing it for selfish reasons. 

He grabbed a few hours of sleep when he got home but made sure to be up by nine.  He’d promised Mandy that he’d go with her to the old house to collect some things.  She still wasn’t comfortable going in there alone.  They’d agreed to meet a 10:00 but by 9:30, he was outside her door, texting furiously on his phone.

_ You up? _

The response came almost immediately.

_ Where are you? _

_ Front porch. _

There was a long pause this time but he waited patiently.  The temperature was already creeping up outside when the front door cracked open and Mandy stuck her head out.

“You’re early,” she said nervously, shifting her eyes towards her living room.

“I know,” he answered, “Was wired from my shift.  Couldn’t sleep anymore.”

The indecision was written all over her face but she finally relented, holding a finger up to her lips as she stepped back and ushered him into the little foyer.  She was wearing a robe and her hair was still shoved up in a towel.  He felt a small stab of guilt for rushing her.  

“I need to get dressed.” she whispered, “Don’t wake him up.”  There was a protective note in her voice and in the look she shot him as she walked back into her bedroom and shut the door.

Only then did he let his gaze drift towards the living room.

He couldn’t help the breath that caught in his throat.  

The couch dominated the living room’s floor space.  Mickey sprawled across it, his chest rising and falling in even breaths as he slept.  Ian could feel a strange adrenaline coursing through his veins.  Fuck.  There they were, in the same room, with no glass partitions, for the first time in almost two years.  

He hadn’t planned this exactly, but he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t hoped Mickey would still be here.  He hadn’t expected to catch the other man in such a vulnerable position, though.  The couch was made up into a bed and the sheet had drifted down to pool around his waist.  Ian could see the light outline of Mickey’s ribs beneath his pale skin.  The misspelled tattoo was still there, but it was blurred and faded.  The sight of it was both painful and elating, but those feelings passed quickly as he examined Mickey’s face.  

He could see the tense set of his jaw and the worry lines across his brow.  He didn’t even realize how close he’d walked, peering down at the other man, until his bare shin struck the coffee table in front of the couch.  The muted bang caused Mickey to jerk slightly, but he settled back into the pillows again and continued to sleep.  

He shouldn’t be in there.  He should just let Mickey sleep and not stare at him like a deranged ex-boyfriend.  He said this over and over in his head but it didn’t stop him from skirting the table and moving closer.  Mickey’s hair had grown out a little since he left lock-up.  It wasn’t as long as it had been when he’d headed to Mexico but it was getting there and the added length only highlighted the gaunt lines of his cheeks.  This close up, Ian could really see just how defined his ribs were; the outline of his sternum beneath the tattoo and the sharp line of his clavicle were clearly visible.  

Jesus fuck, was he eating at all?

There was nervous sweat on the palms of Ian’s hands.  He didn’t know what to do.  Should he wake Mickey up?  Mandy had told him not to but Trevor’s words from yesterday wouldn’t get out of his head.  Mickey wasn’t doing well.  Mandy really wasn’t either.  He couldn’t just ignore that.

A loud crash from the foyer of the upstairs apartment took the decision out of his hands.

Mickey was instantly awake, his hands fisted and ready to defend himself and his gaze lasered on the front door.  Ian could make out the droplets of cold sweat that had burst out on his forehead.  His eyes had the wild look of a caged animal.  Ian took two steps back, giving Mickey some space before his eyes zeroed in on him.  He’d slept beside Mickey enough to know how the other man reacted when he was startled awake.  He’d seen this before but it had never been this bad.  

It was the deeply rooted fear in Mickey’s eyes that finally gave Ian clarity.  He had to check on the other man, had to talk to him and show his support.  If Mickey wanted to throw it in his face and tell him to get the fuck out, then that was his right, but Ian was going to take the risk.  

Leaning back against the window sill in a stance he hoped was completely passive, he offered a simple, quiet, “Hey.”

The word was barely audible but Mickey whipped around anyways, fixing a wild, suspicious glare on his seat at the window.  There was confusion, then suspicion in his eyes, but his fists and the tight set of his jaw softened a little as he realized who he was seeing.  He let his shoulders sag back against the pillows after a moment, his gaze falling to his hands as they unfurled in his lap.

“Hey,” he answered back.

The sound of his voice sent a jolt through Ian’s heart.  The confident enunciation, the smartass undertone, all of it was gone.  It sounded hoarse from disuse.  Ian could feel frustration curling his fingers around the window ledge he was seated against.  He wanted to fix this so bad.  He wanted to walk across the room, slide himself into the makeshift bed and wrap Mickey in his arms.  He wanted to press the other man’s head against his heart and smooth all the fear and tension from his brow.  

He couldn’t, though.  He’d lost that right.  Instead, he had to settle for creeping forward slowly and gesturing towards the table in front of the coffee table.

“I’m waiting for Mandy,” he said, keeping his voice as casual as possible, “Can I sit for a second?”

There was no answer at first, as Mickey just stared at the table like he was trying to remember why it was there.  He glanced up at Ian for only a second, conspicuously avoiding his eyes as he offered up a curt, quick nod.  Ian didn’t waste time with disappointment at the lack of enthusiasm his ex was offering him.  He took three steps and dropped down to sit barely two feet away.  

The silence that followed was awkward but nothing short of war or famine could have dragged Ian from the spot.  Mickey’s hand tightened and then unfisted gradually and Ian watched the realization that he was half-naked in front of his ex-boyfriend and the resulting realization that he didn’t have the energy to care flit across the brunette’s tired face.  Ian bit his tongue.  He had so many questions to ask but he said nothing, giving the other man time to adjust to his presence.  

He kept silent as Mickey gathered some of the sheet up from around his waist and shifted higher on the couch, deliberately pulling the covering up and over his chest a bit as he did.  The brunette stayed silent but shot Ian several glances out of the corner of his eyes.  Ian could feel a bubble of tension growing around the other man.  This wasn’t helping.  He didn’t want to be the cause of more of Mickey’s stress.

“I didn’t want to wake you up?” he blurted out.

On the couch, Mickey just shook his head.  “Didn’t,” he said quietly, pointing towards the foyer ceiling.

“Are they always loud?”

“Nah,” came the flat, tepid response, “Everyone’s quiet.”

Ian nodded, a little lost at what to say. He finally settled on a droll, “That’s good,” as he frantically scrambled for an avenue of conversation.  This sucked.  It had never, never been this hard to talk to Mickey, not even in the beginning when he’d lived in constant fear that every other word out of his mouth would make the skittish, closeted brunette bolt.

“Do you want to go back to sleep?” he heard himself say. He couldn’t help it.  He wanted to talk but it was also impossible to ignore how run down the other man looked.  

Mickey shook his head quickly, reaching back to grab his phone off the little end table behind him.  Ian couldn’t help but watch the muscles flex as the brunette moved but he also couldn’t ignore the unhealthy pallor of the other man’s skin.  

“Got work,” came the reply as Mickey checked the time.

“How’s that going?” he asked hurriedly, grateful for a line of communication.

“It’s good,” Mickey glanced up at him for a quick second, “Thanks, for, you know…” he waived his hands for Ian to fill in the rest of the blanks.

“It wasn’t a problem.  I mean, they needed the help and Trevor’s a good guy.”

“He is.”

More silence.

His nerves were getting the better of him. He shifted on the coffee table to lean forward a bit, freezing up instantly when Mickey jerked back and threw up his fists.  Shit, he hadn’t mean to...but fuck it because Mickey’s eyes were wild and afraid again.  They stared at each other, eyes locked as Mickey fought down his panic.  Ian wasn’t sure what to do. He stayed perfectly still, breathing in and out carefully and quietly, until the brunette calmed and his chest rose and fell in time with Ian’s.  Blue eyes shifted away quickly, but not before Ian caught a glimpse of the misery in them.

“Sorry,” he said, barely above a whisper, “I didn’t mean to...you know…”

“It’s not you,” came the quiet reply.  There was no bite in the voice at all.  A tight band was forming around Ian’s chest, squeezing mercilessly at his heart.  Trevor was right.  He hadn’t known Mickey and so he didn’t understand just how bad this really was.  

For years, Ian had hated Mickey’s defenses, but he’d grown up on the same streets, if not the same house, and he understood the need.  Mickey needed them now.  He needed his quick tongue and acid wit but these things had deserted him. Ian had seen Mickey vulnerable before.  He’d shared a bed with him, for fuck’s sake, and even though Mickey hated to admit it, he was as prone to bad dreams as anyone who’d experienced real horror in their lives.  Ian had always been able to reach him in those moments.  He’d been able to hold him close, run his fingers through dark hair and whisper words of comfort against his ear.  

Now, though, he didn’t know how to help.  His very movements were triggering panic in the other man.  He clung to Mickey’s assertion that it wasn’t him but what good did that do? Yes, Mickey probably would’ve reacted the same to any movement but it absolutely tore Ian apart that he had sunk so low in Mickey’s estimation.  He used to be a place of comfort for the blue-eyed man.  He used to be safe. 

Now, he was just another part of the wide world.  Another part of the threat.   

He couldn’t think straight.  He couldn’t formulate a plan, come up with a strategy, plan an approach.  All he had was his instincts and they were honing in on everything that was wrong with the picture in front of him.  Mickey was too scared, too quiet, too thin.

Well, he could help with one thing at least.  Ian didn’t remember standing or walking to the kitchen but he suddenly realized he’d pulled eggs, cheese and milk out of Mandy’s fridge and was mixing them together in a bowl he’d found.  He glanced sideways just in time to catch Mickey’s wary gaze over the back of the couch before the brunette turned away and sank down out of sight. 

Ian could feel his mouth tightening but he ignored it, searching for a pan and some cooking spray.  He poured the egg mixture out of the bowl, threw in some salt and pepper, and whipped them around the small pan as they solidified.  He was careful to keep his eyes averted as he grabbed a plate and fork and dumped the eggs out of the pan.  Picking up the fork, he strolled back into the living room, making sure to reclaim his seat on the table before he held the plate out. 

“Here,” he said in his best impression of Fiona’s no-nonsense voice, “Eat.”

Mickey’s blue eyes actually held his gaze for a moment and the incredulous shock in them was the first real emotion he’s seen Mickey demonstrate.  They were locked in a standoff; Ian insistently holding out the plate of food while Mickey glanced at hesitantly.  Trying a different tack, Ian smiled.

“What?  You know I make good eggs.”

The subtle reference to their past was a risk but it seemed to work.  Mickey sighed quietly but he accepted the plate and took several bites under Ian’s appraising eye.

“Thanks,” he offered quietly.

“I’ve been seeing a shrink,” Ian heard himself suddenly blurt out.  He panicked inwardly for a moment before he realized that this was his gut seizing control again.  His brain wasn’t doing so well.  Maybe it was time to let his gut make some choices.

It had been right about the eggs.

Mickey looked up at him, meeting his eyes for a moment while his brows knitted together.  He took another bite, though, so Ian wasn’t going to complain.  Instead, he ploughed ahead.  “I’ve been seeing her for about two years now.  We’ve talked about a lot of shit, most of which I don’t want to talk about, but she doesn’t let me get away with that really.  I’m taking my medicine, too.  I really haven’t had any dramatic mood swings in the last year.”

Ian didn’t know what he was expecting from that admission.  He was worried Mickey would deflate beneath those words, somehow assuming that Ian got better without him.  All he got, though, was a head nod as Mickey continued to stare at his plate. Well, he thought, there were worse reactions.  He opened his mouth again.

“My shrink talks to me about forgiveness a lot.  She’s big on it.  She wants me to work on forgiving other people, on forgiving myself.”  Folding his hands, he leaned forward a bit, lowering his voice, “She wants me to work on earning the forgiveness of others.”

Mickey’s eyes were fixed hard on the plate but Ian could see the tension collecting in his fingers, shoulders, and jaw again.  Common sense told him to back off but his instincts were still screaming that he had to get this out.

“I’m not asking for anything, okay.  Nothing at all, except for one thing.  I just want you to think about whether or not you could forgive me.”

“For what?” came the whispered reply.

“So much,” he answered honestly, “ Fucking with your emotions, whether I meant to or not.  Putting you through hell with my illness…”

“Not your fault.”  Ian could see Mickey’s hand tightening around the handle of his fork.  It sent a rush of emotion through him.  After all this shit, Mickey still defended him, even against himself.  What the fuck had he ever done to earn this kind of loyalty?  How the hell had he failed so badly in returning it?

“Some of it wasn’t,” he admitted, “but some of it was.  I was sick, yeah, but I didn’t fucking take care of myself, even though I knew better…” He trailed off as Mickey shifted uncomfortably on the couch, staying silent until the brunette settled and finally took another bite of eggs.  

“Fuck, Mick, I’m not trying to upset you,” he said, “And I’m not going to push this, okay.  All I’m saying is that I fucked up a lot.  I know I did and I’m sorry I did and I’m going to stay healthy and not do that shit anymore.  And I’m not asking you to forgive me either, not now and not ever if you think you can’t because if you can’t then okay because I deserve that but I’m asking you to just think about it…”

“I forgive you.”

The inflectionless statement cut him off like a slap.  He stared at Mickey, his mouth open with shock, as the other man just continued to eat his eggs and stare at his plate.  

“You do?  No, Mick, you don’t have to just say that.”

“I’m not.”  For the first time, there was more than a hint of genuine emotion in Mickey’s voice and his blue eyes burned a little as he shot Ian an actual withering glare.  It only lasted a second before Mickey fixed his eyes back on his lap, but it had been real.

“I’m not,” he continued quietly as Ian sat frozen on the table edge, listening intently. “It’s over.  We made choices, shit happened, but it’s over.  I’m not holding on to that shit.  You shouldn’t either.”

Ian could feel a nervous sweat forming on his back.  Where was this going?

“I’m glad…”

Mickey cut him off with a slight wave of his hand.

“We made some bad fucking choices.  Can’t keep doing the same shit or we’re gonna end up in the same place.”  Ian studied him carefully as he took a deep breath. “I forgive you.  But we should stay away from each other.”

For a second, Ian’s mind went blank.  Then a rolling wave of despair caused his stomach to turn on itself.  He closed his eyes and gripped the table edge until the worst of it had passed.

“I’m not sure I can.” He whispered, furious with himself for those words.  He forced his eyes open but Mickey was staring heavily at his plate again, a haunted glaze over his blue eyes.

“You can,” he said simply, “We both know you can.  You’ve done it before.”

Mickey moved suddenly, and Ian barely suppressed a jolt, but the other man was just grabbing his phone again to check the time. “I need to get to work,” he said, finally meeting Ian’s eyes.

Their gaze held and Ian could see the emotion in the depths of the blue.  Mickey was pleading, begging him to let him be.  And he’d promised to do what Mickey needed.

“Okay,” he answered simply, knowing he was agreeing to more than just Mickey’s work schedule.  “Okay,” he said again as he stood up.  He held his hand out to the empty plate, “Here, let me get that.”

He could see the slight tremor in Mickey’s hands as he handed the plate over but he said nothing, calmly carrying it into the kitchen.  He faced the sink intently, ignoring the sounds of the other man moving behind him.  He didn’t move until he heard the sound of the bathroom door closing.

“You ready to go?”

He spun to see Mandy, dressed and ready, standing in the door with a concerned, knowing look on her face.  A face that was also pale and gaunt.  

Christ, were either of them fucking eating?

Ian felt a wave of resolve crest inside of him.  He was going to listen to Trevor and Mandy.  He was going to stop being a selfish asshole.  He’d promised himself that he’d let Mickey call the shots.  He could do that. He could give the other man all the space he needed but that didn’t mean he had to stop giving a fuck.  It didn’t mean he couldn’t do anything to help.

He was off until tomorrow night. He was using that time to make these two some food.  He didn’t have to see Mickey.  He could just leave it on the porch and ring the bell.

Ding, dong ditch it, as Frank would say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mickey gets out of the house.


	9. Mickey and the Terrifying, Interesting, Kinda Good, Not So Bad Day, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hugs fix everything. Also, everyone is still trying to feed Mickey.

**July 14, 2019 early morning**

Holy shit.  The Gallaghers had a picket fence.  An honest to fuck, white board, moving-on-up, picket fucking fence.

It was ninety-three degrees out on the sidewalk of South Homan Street, the kind of ball-sweat weather that would keep sane people inside as long as they could, but Mickey Milkovich still found himself standing in the middle of the sidewalk, staring up the road, unable to tear his eyes away.

Fucking hell, would he never learn?  Would he never fucking learn?

When he’d left Mandy’s place this morning, he’d promised himself that he would go straight to Kev’s, that he wouldn’t give the neighboring house even the slightest glance.  But who had he even been kidding?  Maybe himself, but nobody else.  He was always weak when it came to Ian.

Fuck.

He’d meant it when he told the redhead that it wasn’t a good idea that they see each other, and he still meant it today.  Even at the very best of times, they were a risk to each other.  They just burned too fucking hot and he needed to stop it before he was reduced to nothing but ashes.  He was halfway there already, for fuck’s sake.  But when it came to Ian Gallagher, nothing was that easy.

Ever.

Ian hadn’t argued when Mickey had told him they needed to keep apart.  The look on his face had been one of devastation but he’d agreed immediately and Mickey hadn’t seen him for the past two weeks.  Well, he hadn’t seen him in person, but the asshole was still making his presence known.  He’d left lasagna, garlic bread, and a big container of salad in a cooler on Mandy’s front porch two days after their little exchange.  He’d left another huge tray of some type of spicy chicken casserole with Mandy when they’d seen each other three days ago.  Mickey wasn’t stupid and he sure as shit wasn’t blind.  He knew that he and Mandy both looked like hell.  He knew they weren’t eating enough.  Hell, if he hadn’t noticed, then Colin’s new, improved mother-hen alter-ego would’ve reminded  them in a heartbeat.  Mickey knew he should be taking better care of himself and insisting that Mandy do the same, but the thought of doing that, of trying to make better choices, left him feeling so run-down. 

And here was Ian, swooping in to take care of them without ever showing his face.  

The food had been delicious.  That pissed him off, too.

It wasn’t that Mickey doubted that Ian really cared.  That had never been the problem.  Sometimes, he cared more than anyone else.  The problem had always been the consistency, or fucking lack thereof.  Right now, Ian cared.  Right now, Ian was worried and protective.  But who knew how long that shit would last?  Because yeah, Ian had cared before.  Yeah, Ian had even loved him, at least a little, but even with all that, Mickey had never really been sure of his place in Ian’s life.  His family had always been fairly predictable, at least up until recently, but Ian was the eternal wild card.  

Mickey had always found that to be exciting, right up until he hadn’t.  Right up until he finally found himself driving down a highway in Mexico, hopeless and alone once again.  Right up until he’d decided to just keep on going, to put as much distance between himself and all the shit in Chicago and a certain fucking redhead as possible.  Ian was unpredictable, but what had once exhilarated Mickey now just scared him. And this new Ian was scarier than ever.  South side Ian, born and bred hood kid Ian, was at least familiar.  This new Ian, this stable, employed, healthy Ian was a stranger wearing the face of the man Mickey probably still loved.  He didn’t need Mickey and Mickey didn’t belong anywhere near him. 

Ian was in a good place.  He wasn’t going to flake on the Terry shit and leave them hanging.  They could just let go of each other and move on.  And so, he’d told Ian to stay away and he’d been determined to stick to that.

Well, he was doing fuck-all to help that cause now, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, staring up at the Gallagher house.  He took a drag of his cigarette and allowed himself a closer look.

The fence wasn’t the only change.  The house itself looked freshly painted and a new porch, bright white like the fence, scaled the whole front now.  Some hanging plants and a wicker furniture set completed the picture.  It looked like a stable, middle-class home, occupied by a stable, middle-class family.  

It wasn’t the only one, either.  The whole street looked neat and shined up.  Lawns were trimmed, flowerbeds were everywhere.  Even Kev and Vee’s house next to him had a new coat of paint on the porch and trim.  This place was changing too fast for him.  If this was what the southside was now, he didn’t belong here anymore.

Though you wouldn’t know it to look at him, he mused, tearing his eyes away from the little blue house and glancing down at himself.  Mandy had gone on a ridiculous shopping spree for him a few days after he got out, after they both realized that all he had to wear were the clothes Ron had left at her house and Colin and Iggy’s shit, which was all too big.  She’d spared no fucking expense, which was why he now found himself in pristine cargo shorts and a baby blue t-shirt from the GAP.  They were the nicest, newest clothes he’d ever owned.  Take away his tats and he’d look as clean and shiny as a goddamned frat boy, and it completely unnerved him.  There wasn’t much he could do about it though, since everything he owned was still six blocks away in his family’s old house.  

If he wanted any of that shit back, he needed the help of one Kevin Ball.  

Turning on his heels, he walked up on the front porch, only to freeze up at the door.  He hadn’t really spoken to Kev since their little joint business venture got shut down by the cops.  All the shit with Ian really started blowing up after that.  Since then, hell, it had been jail and then fleeing the country.  For all he knew, Kev hated his ass and would slam the door in his face.  

Fuck, he hated this.  He hated, fucking  _ hated,  _ asking people for help.  It was dangerous, it was vulnerable, it gave people ins to screw you over.  Standing on Kev’s porch, he could suddenly feel cold sweat breaking out across his hairline, despite the heat.  He really didn’t want to be here.  He wanted to be back on the couch at Mandy’s, buried under his blankets where the world couldn’t find him.  

But really, how was that any different or any better?  He was asking Mandy for help every day he stayed at her place.  Leaning back against the porch railing for a second, he took a few breaths and forced himself to calm down.  He’d been given a second chance when Gracy had gotten him out of jail.  That’s what is was, whether he wanted to admit it or not.  Now a new opportunity had presented itself, and he wasn’t going to pussy out.

It was three days ago that Tony Markovich had texted him and asked if he could swing by Mandy’s place to talk.  Mickey had almost missed the message, still unused to the new phone, but he had seen it and had replied in the affirmative.  He’d assumed, of course, that the detective had issues that he wanted to discuss about Terry’s case.  He’d even let himself momentarily panic, imagining nightmare scenarios of evidence being thrown out for technicalities and Terry somehow walking free.  By the time the other man had arrived, he’d been a wreck.

Which would help to explain why he was so utterly shocked by the offer Tony had made.  Milkovichs hated cops and cops hated Milkovichs.  Cops did not try to help Milkovichs.  

That hadn’t stopped Tony from offering him a job.

The CPD had created an apartment co-op, Tony had explained.  It was privately bankrolled, which got them out from under HUD regulations in terms of who they could hire.  They needed a building supervisor and Tony had heard that Mickey had some experience.  Mickey had snorted, thinking back to crazy Junot and the apartments in La Boca.  He’d seen some insane shit down there.  There wasn’t much an American apartment complex could throw at him.  This was something he could actually do.

“You telling me a bunch of Chicago cops are going to be okay with me having keys to their apartments?” he’d asked incredulously.

“Is that really going to be a problem?” Tony had fixed him with a glare but his eyes had been good-humored.

Mickey had stared down into his coffee, feeling some red creep into his cheeks. “No,” he’d heard himself say quietly, “I don’t want to do that shit no more.”

“Then yes, they are.”

“Why?”

Tony had leaned back in his chair.  “Because you need a chance.  That’s how this works.  People can’t make something out of themselves without an opportunity.  You had one in Argentina.  You gave it up to come back and get some justice.  And yes, I know that was for you and your sister but it was also for the CPD and all the people Terry hurt.  So yeah, they’ll give you the keys to their apartments.  Just don’t screw it up.”

Yeah, he wasn’t going to screw it up.  Tony had told him to think about it and he’d had a sit down with his siblings to discuss it.  Iggy had kept his mouth shut, which was probably the most useful thing he could’ve done, but Mands and Colin, his two new cheerleaders for honest work, had given him full endorsements.  

The job came with health benefits, which was crazy, but it also included a floor level unit in the co-op’s main building.  The apartment included two small bedrooms, a full bath, an eat-in kitchen and a decent sized living room.  It had a dishwasher and central heat and air, for fuck’s sake.

The opportunity was too good.  He wasn’t likely to get another one.  And he wasn’t going to reach too high this time.  He’d keep his hopes and desires mid-level and predictable, so they didn’t blow up in his face.  So, despite his fears, he’d peeled his ass off Mandy’s couch, sacked up, and said yes.  And now here he was, standing on Kev’s porch to beg a favor off a guy who’d once pulled a gun on him and who had banged his ex-wife, because even after all that, Kev was still the closest thing to a friend Mickey actually had.

Taking a long drag to calm himself, he tossed his butt back on the sidewalk and knocked on the door.

“Hang on,” boomed a voice from inside.  It was him.  Mickey would recognize that voice anywhere; loud, dumb, and good hearted.  

“Ho-ly  _ shit _ ” was what greeted him as Kev flung open the door.  Before he could escape, he was swept up into a huge bearhug, his feet practically leaving the floor.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” the big idiot said, a jovial smile on his face as he finally put Mickey down.  Mickey took a step back, caught up in the warring emotions within him.  Part of him, the more conscious part, wanted to panic and run, unable to handle so much physical contact after avoiding it like a disease for almost two years.  Another part of him, though, buried deeper and harder to acknowledge, wanted to cling to that hug in the worst way.  He barely stopped himself.  He was  _ not _ doing that shit.

“So seriously,” Kev went on as he plunked Mickey back on the porch, “What the hell, dude?  I mean, it’s great to see you.  What are you up too?  Do you want a sandwich.  I mean, not to be an ass, but you really look like you could use a sandwich.” Kev’s expression had turned concerned as he looked Mickey over. “Not to be an ass or anything.  You get that, right?  But what’s up?”

Mickey shook his head at the onslaught of questions.  Two years hadn’t changed Kevin Ball, but then, that’s what he was counting on.  He opened his mouth to make his request but bit his tongue at the last minute. That wasn’t what people did, right?  People didn’t just blurt out favors after this much time.  People who hadn’t seen each other for years asked about each other’s kids and shit, right?

“How’s the family?” he asked, grimacing inwardly as he said it.  His voice was still too quiet.  

“We’re...complicated,” came the answer as Kev looked back over his shoulder.  “You talk to Lana at all since you got back?”

“Nah.” he answered quickly.  No, he hadn’t.  He’d heard a lot, from Mandy and the lawyers, but he hadn’t had the energy to open up that old wound. 

“No,” Kev repeated, still glancing over his shoulder. Mickey watched him as he stared down at the porch for a long moment, indecision flitting across his face.

“It’s hot as hell out here,” he finally said, “I think you should come in.  Just don’t...flip out or anything, okay?”

Mickey tried to meet his gaze but all he got out was a half-volumed, “Why would…” before Kev pushed the front door open and ushered him inside.

The “why” was immediately obvious.

He’d never actually been in Kev’s house before.  All their interactions had run through the Alibi.  It was actually pretty nice inside, although it was completely dominated by kid’s shit.  Bins of toys were neatly lined along the walls.  Kid sized chairs took up floor space in the living room.  

The dining room table was strewn with crayons, markers and completed drawings.  Two little girls, their hair in matching buns, colored sporadically, pausing to examine and critique each other’s work or fight over crayons.  The occupant at the end of the table was much more diligent, his attention focused on his drawing as he blocked out the chatter around him with well-practiced discipline.  

He glanced up suddenly, locking a curious gaze on Mickey with the same crystal blue eyes that he saw whenever he could bring himself to look in the mirror.  The stare was assessing, almost penetrating, and Mickey felt a sharp grip take hold in his chest.  He stared back at the kid, just as curious, as Kev came up beside him.

“You good, man?” he asked. 

Mickey could only nod as he tried to swallow past the lump that had formed in his throat.

“He stays with me every other day,” Kev explained, walking further into the living room to lean against the dining room partition. “You knew Vee and Lana got married, right?”

He nodded vaguely, unable to tear his eyes away from the kid.

“Yeah, well, she fucked us over pretty bad, but hell, nothing’s ever black and white in this neighborhood, is it?  I won’t bore you with the whole story, but we try to help out when we can, you know.”

Mickey could feel his whole body swaying a little under the shock.  He’d heard Mandy talk about his kid several times, and there was even one of his drawings hanging on her fridge, but Mickey wasn’t about to ask any damn questions.  He didn’t need to get involved.  How many kids had been fucked up by their piece of shit sperm donors?  He didn’t need to help Yevgeny join that club. He’d do everything in his power to protect the little guy from Terry, but it was safer for everyone, especially Yev, if he just stayed away.

Well, here was fate, fucking with him again, dumping the kid right in front of him.  

One of the little girls chose that exact moment to pick up her juice cup and dump it all over her head.  

“Jemma!  Dammit.”  Kev ran over and picked the soaked little girl up as she started to bawl. “No, no, no crying.  Daddy didn’t mean to yell.  We’ll get you cleaned up.”  He turned to Mickey as he headed towards the stairs, “Can you hang for a minute, man?  I’ll be right back.” He ascended without waiting for an answer.    

Mickey’s eyes snapped back to the table, a sliver of terror running down his spine.  Sure enough, both little kids were staring at him now.  He could feel his hands shaking a little and he forced himself to take a deep breath, wondering if he should try to talk to the kid, wondering what he would say, when the other little girl suddenly jumped down from the table and stomped over to him.

“Who are you?” she demanded, hands on her hips.  Mickey just stared at the little spitfire, unsure of how to respond.

“Uh, I’m...you’re...I’m a…”  
“What’s your name?” 

“Um, Mickey?”

“Are you a mouse?”

“What?” He gave the kid a weird look, but it was pretty obvious she wasn’t kidding around.

“Um, no,” he answered feebly, a little overwhelmed by how daunting he found this three year-old girl.

“Why do you have a mouse name?”

Fuck, were all three year olds like this?  Who even knew how to answer this shit?

“It’s not my real…”

“Okay.”  Turning on her heel, the little girl suddenly scurried away, speeding up the stairs after her father and sister.  Mickey stared after her for a second, a little bemused, until he realized that the kid, his kid, his son, was still sitting at the dining room table.  

He glanced down.

The kids was still staring at him.

Yevgeny slid out of his seat, landing on his little legs, and began to walk right towards him.  The look on his face was curious but not wary and Mickey found that tremendously comforting.  The kid had an air of confidence about him as he came forward and that confidence was telling.  This was not a child who had been cowed from birth.  He’d never been screamed at or slapped aside by cruel, drunk giants.  

Mickey examined him carefully as he walked towards him, surprised by how fresh his memories suddenly were.  He could see Yev’s face, clear as day, when the cops had handed him over after Ian’s little joyride from hell.  The face was slimmer now, his chunky little cheeks melting away into the firmer features of an inquisitive little boy.  His hair was still blond, but darker, with a little curl to it that reminded him of Colin’s.. 

It was the eyes that got him, though.  The eyes were exactly the same.  And they were exactly like his.

Yevgeny stared up at him and Mickey just stared back mutely, the fist around his heart clenching even tighter while his stomach flipped and fluttered. He could almost laugh at this shit.  He’d survived Terry, juvie, prison and an eight country road trip through South America but he didn’t think he’d ever been so fucking terrified.  Should he say something to the kid?  Yev didn’t appear willing to leave that decision up to him.  Stopping right in front of Mickey, he reached up with a chubby hand and grasped the bottom of Mickey’s blue shirt, tugging it down.  Mickey didn’t even think.  He just obeyed, crouching down until he was eye level with the son he hadn’t seen in almost two years.  

“Your name’s Mickey?” he said in a voice that was sweet but confident.  Mickey’s heart clenched even harder.  His legs were cramping a little but he didn’t even consider standing back up. Instead he just slid to his knees in front of the little boy and nodded vigorously.

“Yup.”

“But you’re not a mouse,” the kid stated with authority.  “Amy thought you were a mouse.”  

“I’m not,” Mickey assured him and the kid giggled.

“Amy can be dumb sometimes.”

“You shouldn’t say that,” Mickey replied before he could even think.  Yev rolled his eyes a little but nodded.

“I know.  Mama always says.”

The kid moved suddenly, his little hands shooting up from his sides.  He reached out, placing a palm on each of Mickey’s cheeks, cradling his face while Mickey could do nothing but fight to catch his breath. The kid was turning his face slightly, examining him from all angles, standing so close that Mickey could feel the heat coming off his little body.  He fisted his hands together and pressed them to his thighs, willing them to stay still, willing them not to reach out and hug the little guy close.  The last thing he wanted was the scare the hell out of him.  He took a few shallow breaths, managing to get ahold of himself, only to lose his shit again when the kid spoke.

“You look like my Daddy.”

The fuck?  How would Yev...There was no way the kid remembered him.

“How do...How do you know?” he asked, stumbling over his words.

“I have a picture.”

He did?

“You do?”  How the fuck had that happened?

“From Mama,” the kid explained, his hands still holding Mickey’s cheeks as they stared into each other’s eyes.  

“Mama gave you the picture?” Why the hell had she done that?  Fuck knows, there’d been no love lost between him and Svetlana.

“I asked.  Jemma and Amy have Papa Kev, but he’s not my daddy.  And Ben at the park has a daddy, too.  Mama said my daddy was away.  But I have his picture.” The kid took a slight step closer, squinting into Mickey’s face.  “Are you my daddy?” he asked with the enthusiastic innocence of a three year old.

Mickey almost choked on his own breath.  Fuck!  What the hell should he say?  A part of him wanted to shake his head, to stand up and get away from this perfect little person who didn’t need any shit rolling into his life.  The kid never had to know, right?

But he couldn’t seem to do it.  He was powerless to shake his head, to pull away from the little hands that still cupped his face, from the inquisitive, hopeful blue eyes.

A sound from above drew both of their gazes.  Kev was standing on the stairs, clearing his throat, a look of concern in his eyes.  The girls came bounding down the stairs in front of him, calling for Yev as they scampered back to the dining room.  

“Do you like cookies,” Yev asked suddenly before darting back to the table.  Pulling a plate close to him, he began to examine each cookie with a critical eye.

“Lana gave him an old picture of you she found at the house,” Kev explained, sitting down at the end of the couch close to where Mickey still knelt on the floor.  His eyes were still fixed on the little boy, who was now classifying the cookies by size and chocolate chip count.  

“You okay,” the taller man asked him.  He nodded quickly.  Surprisingly, he thought he was okay.  And his kid looked healthy and happy.

“So what did you need?”

Need?  Shit, yeah, he’d come over for a favor.

“I’m moving.” he said simply, scrambling to his feet.  “I got a job with housing.”

“That’s awesome!” Kev smile was genuine and it calmed him a little.

“It is,” he answered, feeling a little sliver of enthusiasm. “But I need to move shit.” He looked up a Kev hopefully.  “Do you still have that truck.”

“Yeah,” Kev said, walking over to the door and pulling some keys out of a cupboard, “But you’d need me to drive it.  It’s hard as hell to get in gear.”

Mickey’s face fell a little.  “Don’t want to bother you.”

“It’s cool, man.  I work nights so I have some time.  When were you thinking?” He glanced at a big wall calendar in the dining room.  “Actually, would tomorrow work?  Vee’s off so she’ll get the girls.”

Mickey nodded quickly, relieved.  He could make tomorrow work.

“So where are we going.”

“The old place,” he answered quietly, “Cops said we could take stuff out.

“What you taking?”

“Whatever we need,” he replied quickly, “Mostly a bed?”

Kev nodded, circling around the table to wipe at the girls’ faces.  “Sounds good, man.  You want to meet around eight, before the heat picks up.”

He nodded.  “My brothers will be there.  And Mandy’s guy.”

“More help, good deal.” Kev had a goofy, satisfied look on his face, as if he enjoyed the idea of moving furniture in hot as fuck weather.  Mickey could only shake his head.  His eyes were drawn back to the little boy who was still deeply involved in his cookie selection.  

The alarm on his phone suddenly rang and he pulled it out to check the time.  Damn.  He had to head out to the shelter.  Shoving it back in his pocket, he offered the big man a smile that felt almost genuine.

“Thanks, man.”

“It’s not a problem, Mick.”  That sounded genuine, too.

Mickey backed one step towards the door, only to freeze up as the little blonde boy slid off his chair again, his chosen cookie held triumphantly in front of him.  He grasped Mickey’s shirt and tugged again and Mickey didn’t even think twice this time before sinking back to his knees.  The kid said nothing, just handed him the cookie with a look of accomplishment.  

Mickey stared at the sweet, unsure what to do with it.  He should probably eat it.  That was the point right.  It should ignore the part of him that wanted to keep it forever.

“Say ‘thank you’,” demanded the little voice in front of him.

His eyes snapped back to the little face, which was now pinched with judgment.

Mickey blinked.

“Thank you?” he muttered sheepishly.

Yev smiled and before Mickey could say more, the kid had launched himself against him, nearly knocking them both over as he wrapped his little arms around Mickey’s neck.  He struggled for balance, bringing one arm up and around Yev instinctively while he righted them.  And then he stopped, the cookie still clutched in one hand, unable to let go.  

He felt more than heard the wet, muffled “Welcome,” the kid said against his throat before the little guy turned around and scurried back towards the table.  

He didn’t know how long he knelt there, in total shock, as he stared at the little boy coloring at the table again.  It was probably only seconds but it felt like fucking forever.  He was vaguely aware of Kev moving into the dining room, glancing at him from the corner of his eye.  

Shit, he had to get to the shelter.

He found his feet again, taking a step back as he glanced at Kev.  The big man was giving him space, but he raised a hand when he saw Mickey heading towards the door.  

“See you there tomorrow, man.” he called as he leaned over the table, sorting through completed drawings. 

“Thanks,”Mickey called back.  At the head of the table, Yevgeny raised his head and waved brightly, a big, toothy smile on his face.  “See you tomorrow,” the little guy repeated.

Mickey waved awkwardly as he fumbled for the door handle.

He took several deep breaths of the hot air once he’d made it to the porch, letting the ache in his heart subside.  His steps were slow, reluctant, as he headed off the porch.  He glanced to his left, letting his gaze fall once more on the little blue house two doors down.  

He let out a final, deep breath and headed up the sidewalk, mulling over a blend of resignation and a strange contentment.  

He could feel the tendrils of his old life creeping around him, but for the first time in a long time, they didn’t feel like chains. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mickey's day gets even more interesting.


	10. Mickey and the Terrifying, Interesting, Kinda Good, Not So Bad Day, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey's whirlwind day continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really nervous about this chapter, which is why it's a little late. It's long and chaotic, but then, Mickey's day has been long and chaotic. Also, I'm not suggesting that some of this behavior is necessarily healthy, but I do think it has its purpose. I also think it's pretty authentically "Shameless", healthy or not. 
> 
> Hope people like it.

**July 14, 2019 mid-day**

 

Mickey walked the whole way over to the center for his meeting with Trevor but it did next to nothing to clear his head.  His first stop was the little kitchen area.  He rustled around in cabinets until he found a napkin, then pulled the little cookie out, wrapping it up carefully before returning it to his pocket.  It was probably nuts but he didn’t care.  It was the first real connection he’d had with his kid in years and he was keeping it for a little while.  If people thought that was weird, they could just fuck off.  

The kitchen was empty and he left himself take a moment, leaning his head back against the wall and closing his eyes.  What the fuck was wrong with him?  He’d been out of Mandy’s house before. He’d ridden the El, gone to the grocery story, come here to work almost every day.  Hell, he’d even gone to the DA’s office and checked in with his parole officer.  Today felt so different, though.  The world felt bigger and vibrantly surreal but it also felt closer, like it was trying to dig behind his protective walls.  

He shook his head from side to side against the concrete blocks, mocking his own stupidity.  Who was he kidding?  He knew what was wrong.  He might have left the house but that didn’t mean he hadn’t still been hiding.  He’d avoided the familiar like the plague, barely talking to his siblings, holding Ian at arm’s length.  

Today was different, though.  Today, he’d tried to stick a foot back into his old world, only to trip and fall in face first.  He’d been so fixated on avoiding all the negative, dangerous shit that he’d allowed himself to block out anything good.  And there had been good.  He’d been inundated on his long walk over with memories of his kid, of holding him and changing him and feeding him.  Sure, Svet had had to threaten his life to get him to finally buy in, but there had been a time, a short but real time, when he’d had a crazy little version of a real family; her, him, his siblings, the kid.  And Ian.  At least until all of the shit inside and around them had blown it all to hell again.  

That was the danger of remembering the good, of course.  It lulled you in.  He had an opportunity to build a modest, sane life, but he was supposed to be keeping his sights set low.  Instead, all it took was one chance encounter with his kid and Mickey was already wanting more.  More of him, more of everything.

Fuck.

He knocked on the open archway that led into Trevor’s office, returning the quick head nod he received from the harried chestnut haired man behind the desk and leaning back against the counter. Mickey kept his eyes downward, pulling the separate colors out of the worn shag carpet that covered the floor of the rec center.  In front of him, Trevor was moving all over his office, shuffling papers and sorting through emails on his phone.  The ambient noise of teenagers drifted in through the walls but Mickey was inoculated against the sound by this point.  Jumping up on the counter, he gave Trevor plenty of room as the other man flew around the small space.

“I got your message.  I’m glad you’re gonna take the job, but can you explain the rest of your plan to me a little more?” he asked as he sifted through a pile of manilla folder, glancing up at Mickey for a moment.

“Yeah, man.  I mean, you still need work done around here, right, but you and I both know you don’t need a handyman and you sure as shit can’t afford it,” Mickey glanced up from the rug, suddenly worried that he might be pissing Trevor off but the other man was just nodding his head in agreement, completely nonplussed.  “Anyway, I was thinking I could still help out and knock some of my service hours off.”

“That works for me,” Trevor answered easily.  Mickey couldn’t help the look of surprise that flitted across his face and he knew Trevor saw it.  “Why would you find that hard to believe?  That I’d mind you working here without paying you?  You do good work.”  
“No,” he answered, glancing at the carpet again. “I just didn’t know if that was the best example for the kids here or some shit.  I mean, it’s one thing if I was actually working but…I don’t know, I thought it might just be easier to be rid of me.  I mean, you hired me as a favor...”

He shut up as Trevor smiled at him, a wide and genuine smile that Mickey always found disarming.  He could suddenly picture the guy smiling that way at Ian, and Ian smiling back.  No, nope, wasn’t thinking about that shit.  

“Look,” Trevor continued, his eyes drifting back to his files, “everyone in this building has a past.  Everyone.  Some are rougher than others.  The kids here don’t scare easily.  I don’t scare easily.” he glanced up, smile in place again, “and please don’t kick my ass for saying this but you aren’t as scary as you might think you are.”

Mickey stared at him, waiting for his attitude to kick in with a snide comment or throat punch, but no, nothing.  Instead, he found himself giving the guy a nod, feeling stupid and a little shy.

“I can probably cobble some stuff together for you, too.  Save you some money.  I mean,  I know how to fix and replace shit on the cheap around here.  Product of my upbringing,”

Trevor’s smile turned a little sad but Mickey kept on going, “Not trying to look for pity or anything.  Just, you know, telling it like it is.”

Trevor nodded, his eyes soft and considering, and Mickey found himself thinking about Ian again.  They’d have looked good together.  Probably were good together, until he came and fucked shit up with his crazy Mexico plans.  Maybe they’d find a way to work shit out.

Pushing his chair back, Trevor came around the desk and leaned against it, still staring at him with an evaluative expression on his face.  “You’re different than I’d thought you’d be,” he said in an honest tone.

“Oh yeah, what did you even know about me?”

“Just stuff. Ian talked about you.  A lot.”

Mickey could feel his eyes burn a little at that admission.  He could only imagine the picture his ex had painted of him. “No wonder you thought I was scary.”

Trevor just laughed.  “No, it wasn’t like that.  You just pop up in all of his stories.  It’s so regular that I don’t even think he notices.”

Mickey felt his shoulders fall, untensing slightly.  Trevor was good at this but he supposed that the ability to charm thugs and damaged street kids was an important part of his job, after all.  He felt a little of his equilibrium return, but still, he shouldn’t be talking about Ian, not now.  It would be like shooting his heart in a barrel.  

Trevor seemed to sense this, reaching behind him and grabbing a calendar.  “When do you start officially?” he asked, flipping through the pages.

“Looks like I’m moving in tomorrow.  Gonna be working with the co-op board members for the next few days to work out some details.” he held out a hand for Trevor’s calendar.  “I could come in for a couple of hours the end of next week, if that works.”

“Yeah, that’s fine.  I mean, this place is always kinda falling down, but there’s nothing too pressing.”

He offered up another pleasant smile and Mickey could feel the corners of his own lips twitching upwards slightly.  The fuck was going on today?  He didn’t do friendly smiles. Trevor seemed a little surprised himself, cocking his head to the side and shooting him a considering gaze as he sat on the front of his desk.

“Don’t get pissed at me for saying this,” he began, crossing his arms across this lap loosely.  “I’m not trying to, like, analyze you or anything.  But just so you know, I’ve needed help before.  I’ve needed favors, as you say.  I don’t really know anyone who hasn’t.  And I mean, you did really good work here so who’s even calling it a favor…” he trailed off as Mickey let his gaze fall back to the ugly carpet.  “Alright, I’m shutting the fuck up, but just, you needed a chance, just like everybody else.  There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“I hate needing help,” he heard himself admit quietly.  

“Yeah, you and everyone else.” the chestnut haired man replied sagely as he pushed off his desk and walked behind it.  In his pocket, Mickey heard his phone chime again.  He pulled it out and squinted at the screen.

Gracy’s office.  Fuck!  What the hell had he been thinking, scheduling this much shit in one day?  He should have broken himself in slowly but it was too late to change anything now.  He slid off the counter, feeling a little unsteady on his feet as they hit the floor.

“Mickey, you okay?” Trevor asked, genuine concern in his voice as he came around his desk.  Mickey fingers tingled but he still waved the other man back.  

“I’m good,” he muttered, fighting to keep his voice steady. “Gotta head up to the DA’s is all.  Talk to the lawyers.”

Trevor looked unconvinced.  “You eat anything?” he asked as he headed over to the mini-fridge he kept in the corner of his office.  

Mickey shook his head but Trevor was already pressing some stuff into his hands.  The bottle of water felt cool and solid against his palm.  The tingling receded.  Looking down at the other item, Mickey couldn’t help but smirk.

A fucking Kind Bar.

He should’ve known that this was where Ian got those fucking things.  

“I’ll text you in a couple of days,” he said as he headed out of the little office, still clutching his gifts.  Trevor threw him a quick wave as he buried himself back under his files.  

He took the El this time, munching on the chocolate bar and sipping the water while his mind raced.  He pulled out his phone and stared at the screen.  Maybe he should just call Gracy’s office and reschedule.  All this shit was too much.  Fucking hell, he hated talking about Terry under the best of circumstances, and the morning had thrown him.  The new job was real, the new place was real,  _ Yevgeny _ was real.  Everything that Terry threatened had seemed so fucking theoretical when he was still hiding on Mandy’s couch but now the reality of the situation was unignorable.  Exhaling a deep breath, he shoved his phone back in his pocket next to Yev’s cookie.  He’d left the couch.  There was no going back because the danger was imminent.  He had to stop hiding and get in this fight for real.  

The DA’s office was huge.  The majority of his preliminary interviews had taken place while he was still locked up and Mandy had been with him on his sole visit to this building.  It had been intimidating as fuck then and it was even worse now as he walked alone through the huge marble foyer and found the elevators.  

Gracy had been seated behind a huge conference table when her secretary had shown him the door.  She was typing furiously as he entered the room but she paused the second she saw him, leaning back in her chair and meeting his gaze.

“Good morning, Mr. Milkovich,” she answered, and Mickey felt his whole stomach turn.  Gracy didn’t do polite cordiality.  Hell, Gracy hardly bothered to make eye contact.  That was usually the job of the blonde douchebro ADA but as Mickey looked around he realized that said blonde assistant wasn’t in the room. He stared back at Gracy, noticing for the first time that the typically impeccable woman looked pinched and exhausted.  There were small smudges of makeup under her eyes and her suit jacket was discarded in a rumpled mess across the back of her chair.  His gut was now balling into a cold knot.  Something was wrong and he didn’t think he could handle much more of the emotional roller coaster he had been on today.

Where the hell was the blonde?  Had something happened to him?

As if on cue, the conference room door opened and in he walked, mirroring Gracy’s disheveled appearance.  No jacket, collar open, tie hanging loose around his neck.  “Sorry I’m late,” he stated to the room in general.  “I got the reports,” he muttered towards Gracy as he slid a USB across the table towards her.  He glanced at Mickey, who was still standing in the doorway, unable to move. His expression morphed from concentration to concern.

“Come take a seat,” He said as he walked towards Mickey.  He paused, following Mickey’s gaze towards his own unkempt appearance and a look of realization crossed his face.  “Nothing’s wrong,” he responded quickly, but his cool veneer wavered a little under Mickey’s assessment.  

“Yeah, bullshit,” he heard himself say, surprised by the volume of his voice.  The lawyers looked taken aback, too, but neither looked angry.  In fact, Mickey could’ve sworn he saw some relief flicker across Gracy’s face.

“Mr. Milkovich, please have a seat,” she said, her no nonsense voice firmly back in place.  He glanced between the two again as he pulled out one of the leather bound chairs and plunked himself down.  The cookie in his pocket pressed against his thigh and he concentrated on the little weight until his stomach calmed.  Whatever they were about to tell him, he was going to have to handle it.  He’d never been more aware of the stakes.

“The last time we spoke, we told you that your father had hired a lawyer,” she continued, staring hard at her computer screen.  Mickey could feel himself relax a little. This was the Gracy he recognized.  

“You told me.  Said he was a real motherfucker.”

“He is.  But he’s also a competent motherfucker.” she looked up again and met his eyes.  The blonde slid into a seat beside him, almost too close, but Mickey kept his eyes firmly fixed on hers.

“Okay?”

“Look, I don’t want to make more of this than it really is, but I also don’t believe in sugarcoating things.  We offered your father a plea bargain that would’ve secured him behind bars for a minimum of thirty years.  I was cautiously optimistic that he might take it, since the sentence he’ll receive if he’s convicted would be upwards of seventy years.  It left him the possibility of a compassionate parole in his old age.  I thought that might entice him, but I was wrong.  They’re going to trial.”

Now it was Mickey’s turn to stare back at her.  Okay, so they were going to trial?  She just said that meant seventy years.  The only way that could be a problem was if...wait...fucking…

“You think he might get off,” he spit out, feeling his own breath squeeze out of him.  He sucked in another breath, balling his hands together on the tabletop.  “You’ve never brought this up.  You’ve never once said this might happen.”

“It always might happen,” she interjected forcefully, and for the first time, Mickey could see real, raw emotion on her face.  “You know enough about our justice system to know that this is always a risk.  You know that so-called justice isn’t always fair.”

Gracy let that point hang in the air for a moment as she stood up and circled back towards the window.  Mickey felt the blond shift in his seat next to him, but he kept his eyes fixed firmly on the woman across the table.  She really looked tired, he suddenly realized.  Her hair, usually arranged so carefully, was frizzing up around her ears and the nape of her neck.  The smudges under her eyes weren’t just makeup; they were dark circles set into the skin.  

It made her look human.  Mickey wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

“Look,” she stated as she turned back towards him, the iron back in her voice, “I personally didn’t want to make a deal.  I didn’t want to because I want to nail Terry Milkovich’s balls to the wall and leave him there squealing.  But I also know how dangerous he is and if there was a chance to assure his removal from society with only the barest possibility that he might get released once he was seventy-five or so, then I was willing to take it.  I was willing because I am not so arrogant or vengeance driven that I would let a guaranteed sentence slip by.  I think you can understand that.”

He could, today more than ever.

“That’s not going to be the way this goes, though.  So no, Mickey, to answer your question, I don’t think he’s going to get off.  I think we have a great case.  I think we’ll win and he’ll go away for the rest of his life.  But the winning isn’t going to be easy.  You’ve heard of Ted Shanley, I’m sure.”

Mickey nodded, his chest still tight despite her reassurances.  “Yeah, I’ve seen his ads and shit.  Is he the lawyer?”

“Yes, he’s a highly capable, extremely sleazy pitbull of a lawyer.  And he’s going to drag every single one of you through the mud.”

“And you think that’s going to be a problem?” he asked, aggravation in his voice, “There isn’t a person on that witness list who hasn’t grown up in shit and been through hell.  You really think some name calling is going to bother us?”

“Yes,” she answered simply, “I absolutely do.  And while I understand why you’re saying what you’re saying here, this isn’t going to help us.  Don’t pretend there isn’t reason for concern.  You all have a lot of history and some of it, a lot of it, is pretty grim, to say it lightly.  There is plenty that Shanley could exploit in an attempt to incite you.  There are plenty of ways that he could try to turn the jury against you.  Ian, for example…”

“Oh, fuck this,” he heart himself blurt out, his voice oddly strong as he cut off her calm little explanation, “I don’t give a shit what anyone thinks.  I’m not that fucking fragile.  Yeah, there’s a lot of shit between me and Ian but...but I’d never let Terry use that against me like that.” he paused and took a deep breath. “I wouldn’t give the fucker the satisfaction.”

“I want that to be true,” she said, “I want it to be true for everyone.  Is Ian that strong?  Is your sister or your ex-wife?”

“Yes!  You know they are,” he insisted stubbornly, hearing the blonde huff a little laugh beside him.

To his surprise, Gracy was looking relieved again. “Good,” she said, sitting back down in her seat and helping herself to a glass of water, “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

She opened up a file then, droning on about witness prep and statement consistency but Mickey could only half-listen.  She’d said, and the blond had sworn to it, that the case was solid, that Terry wasn’t going to get off, but in truth, Mickey had never really considered that possibility.  Now, he couldn’t get it out of his head.  Anything could happen, right?  Then what?  Could he actually do what needed to be done?  Could he actually fucking kill his old man?  He’d wanted to before, after Terry had touched Ian and all the bullshit with Svetlana.  

He hadn’t, not even when the guy had shoved a gun in his mouth.  

But that was before.  Now was different.  So yes, yes he could kill Terry, because Terry sure as fuck would kill him.  He wouldn’t try to control or mind fuck them anymore.  He’d kill Mandy and Svetlana. He’d kill Ian and Lip.  And who the fuck knew who else?  Colin and Iggy?  Probably. Kev? Trevor? Gracy herself?  Anyone who’d ever tried to help them?  Who the fuck knew?  And then Yev would be alone.  

“Do you have any questions?”

“What?” 

He was lost.  Gracy grimaced.

“About the trial process.  Do you have any questions?”

He nodded.  “Yeah, who goes first?”

“Mandy,” she answered quickly, “and before you ask, yes, I’ve discussed it with her.  Mandy will go first to set up the narrative, so to speak.  Philip will follow her to corroborate the initial rape accusation.  There will be an expert who will speak about incest and also outline the concept of rape by proxy.” she paused for a moment, but Mickey kept his gaze averted. “Ian will go next, since he is the one witness who can create a link between the two scenarios.  Then Svetlana.  And then you.”

“I gotta wait until the end?”

“Yes.  I want Mandy to start and you to finish.  I want to highlight the fact that two of the people he brutalized were his own children.”

He nodded, his eyes still down.  “That’s smart.”

“It’s effective.”

Her cellphone was chiming like crazy again and she snatched it up, texting away in her typical fashion.  Mickey stared at her for a moment, a little whiplashed by how quickly she managed to move from one thing to another.  He refused to be pissed about it though.  This was exactly who he needed her to be, the cast iron bitch on a mission.  He needed her on her A game to keep his whole family safe.  Because the alternative...hell...he couldn’t even think about that right now.  This day had been too fucking much.  His hands were shaking uncontrollably and he pressed them down against the table to try to stop the tremors. 

It didn’t help.

He didn’t even realize he was moving until he was standing in front of the conference room door.  He blinked, his head swimming, and whipped back around with his fists up when a hand fell on his shoulder.  He pulled back at the last second, narrowly avoiding punching the blonde ADA in the face.

“You alright?” he asked, studying Mickey’s face.

“Yeah,” Mickey muttered back, his voice tiny and unconvincing again.  He couldn’t muster the willpower for more, though.  He’d gotten out of the house, handled his business.  He couldn’t do anymore today.  He had other responsibilities for tomorrow and he had to save his strength.  

“Are we good?  I really need to go.”

Across the table, Gracy gave him a considering look.  “We are,” she replied, but her look remained suspicious, “I’ll be in touch again very soon.”

He nodded, fumbling for the door handle.  He was in the long, marble-floored hallway before he knew it.  He glanced up and down the corridor but it all looked the same; enormous picture windows at each end with polished brown doors stretching between them for miles.  He made a complete circle in the middle of the floor, disoriented and dizzy as hell.  The hallway stretched on forever, the floor and ceiling were so far away.  He didn’t remember how to get out of here.  He didn’t want to ask for help and it didn’t matter because there was no one to ask for help because he was alone, he always ended up alone because no one ever really wanted...

Mickey almost screamed out loud when an arm suddenly wound itself around his waist.  The adrenaline rush had him spinning and flailing for a moment, turning quickly within the circle of the arm with his fists balling.  All the fight ran out of him when he realized it was the blonde ADA beside him.

“You alright?” the guy asked, genuine concern on his face, “You looked like you were going to fall over.”

“I think I was,” he replied before he could help himself.  He shouldn’t show weakness but really, who was he kidding?  He’d been about to have a panic attack in the middle of the hall.  He was too tired to lie to to the guy and definitely too tired to lie to himself.  He stared back at the other man, suddenly aware of how close they were standing; aware of how he would’ve reacted in the past, always so afraid of Terry. The blond’s eyes were blue but there were little flecks of gray and gold near the irises.  He really needed to learn this guy’s name.

“It’s Peterson.”

“What?”

“Peterson.  That’s my name.”

“Peter...how the hell did you…?”

“What? That you needed to learn my name?  You just said it out loud.”

Mickey felt himself blush.  He also realized that he was walking, as Peterson ushered him down the hallway and took a left.  They were heading into a back area of the DA’s office now, a much more utilitarian collection of cubicles and fluorescent lighting.

“It’s actually Bryce,” Peterson continued as he deftly navigated the various desks, chairs, and copiers, keeping Mickey pinned to his side.  He didn’t try to resist.  He’d been adrift all day.  Peterson’s arm was the only thing tethering him to reality.  

“Bryce?

“Yeah, my name.  Bryce Peterson III.”

“The third?”

“Uhuh.”

“That’s your name?”

“Yeah.”

“Of course it is.”  Of course it was.  The perfect name for a smug blond ADA.

“You’re the second witness in this case who didn’t know my name.” Peterson stated glibly as they started down a narrower hallway.  “Every time I’d look at either of you, I could always see you making up nicknames for me inside your heads.”

Mickey snorted despite himself.  “Was it Lip?”

“Yes.”

“Fucking figures.”

“Why’s that?”

“We both have South Side Asshole Syndrome.  It’s pretty much the only thing we have in common.”

“You believe that?”

“Hell, yeah.  Lip’s the brilliant shiny penny of a halfway functional family.”

“Seems to me he’s made a lot of bad choices and had a lot of shit thrown his way, too.”

Mickey nodded, slowing his pace.  He wasn’t being fair.  He’d never liked Lip but he wasn’t going to deny that Lip’s life had been fucked up.  Just because Frank wasn’t on Terry’s level didn’t mean the guy wasn’t an absolute piece of shit.  The Gallaghers just did a better job taking care of each other.  Fiona, for all her faults, had held them together.  In his family, that was his job and he’d fucked it all up.  

He could feel his chest tightening again.  He was a fuck up.  Always had been.  He hadn’t been able to hold his family together.  He’d run away, telling himself they didn’t care even when he knew that wasn’t true.  And now this shit.  Now he had Gracy reminding him that Terry going to jail was no sure thing.  He couldn’t fuck up now.  He couldn’t.

He was in a small office before he knew what was happening, the arm around his waist suddenly gone.  He wanted to reach for it again and cling to it, even if it did belong to some bigshot prosecutor with grey and gold in his eyes.  The arm was solid and real and he needed something real to hold on to.  What the fuck was this day?  Every time he pulled himself together, something else happened to knock him on his ass again.

Behind him, he heard the clicking sound of a door lock turning.  A prickle ran up his neck but it was muted and sludgy and instantly blown away when Peterson’s arm looped back around his waist, pulling him back gently but firmly until his shoulder blades rested against the other man’s chest.

What the fuck now?  Seriously, what the fuck?  And why the fuck wasn’t he kicking the presumptuous blond’s ass?  He thought these thoughts but they didn’t matter as he let himself sink into the warmth of the body behind him.  It was sturdy and real and why the hell not?  Was there some fucking law against him accepting a goddamned hug?

“Shhhh”

Warm breath brushed against his ear and suddenly his chest wasn’t the only thing tightening.  Peterson’s palm was pressing against his stomach, rubbing light circles and drifting lower and lower with each movement.  

Oh, fuck, fuck, fu…

“Do you want me to stop,” the voice whispered against his ear again as the hand stopped creeping downward, “Just tell me and I will.”

Did he?  No. No he didn’t.  He didn’t want this to stop.  He probably should but he just couldn’t make himself.  Not after today.  He needed something; connection, release.  He couldn’t say for sure.

He just needed to feel something good.

“No.”

“No?”

“Don’t stop.”

He didn’t push back.  He didn’t fight for any control.  He let Peterson maneuver him however he wanted, let the other man pull him over to his desk and strip his fancy new shorts down to his ankles.  Let him wrap a hot mouth around him.

Jesus fuck!

Mickey’s last few years had been sparse when it came to sex.  He’d screwed around with his cellies in prison but that was never anything more than bending them over their bunks for a few minutes.  In Argentina, he’d been too broken, too tired to ever pursue anything more exotic than his own hand.  It had been base and need driven.  This was anything but.  The lawyer fucking knew his way around a cock.

He jerked when the warmth suddenly left him.  His eyes blinked furiously as Peterson loomed over him, pressing him down flat atop the desk.  He tried to form words but his lust addled tongue had suddenly turned mute and useless in his mouth.

“Are you… are you going to…”

“Fuck you?” Peterson finished for him, “No.  I mean, I wouldn’t mind, but I’m not who you want and that’s okay.”

He stared up into the blue gray eyes that hovered only inches above him.  The words played across his mind but the blond wasn’t about to let them take root.  Bringing his hand up, he leaned close to Mickey’s ear as he brushed his fingertips over his eyelids.

“Stop thinking,” He whispered in a tone that was still commanding. 

In the darkness behind his eyelids, Mickey could see nothing but he could feel every sensation of the other man’s mouth as it worked its way down his body.  His stomach fluttered and he bit his lips until he could taste a trace of blood as gentle kisses were pressed down the length of his shaft.  He gasped allowed, barely containing a moan as he was swallowed down again.  Fuck, fuck, fuck, it felt perfect, almost too perfect, and for a moment his thoughts almost slipped back to the last person he’d let anywhere near his dick.  He shoved the thought from his mind as fast as it appeared.  He was not going there right now.  Instead, he let his head go blank and concentrated on the sensation.  

Peterson didn’t appear to be in any rush, pulling him back from the brink, teasing him with his tongue.  Mickey’s mouth had fallen open, a choked, whispered litany of profanity pouring out of his mouth as he tried to keep quiet, well aware that about a hundred people were right outside the door.  Peterson didn’t seem to give have a shit, running his teeth around the sensitive rim of his dick before biting firmly along the length of his frenulum.  

His whole body seized at the sensation and a high-pitched moan tore from his throat.  His arms were scrambling frantically for some kind of purchase above his head and some fancy-ass pen set was sent tumbling to floor.  He felt Peterson chuckle against his dick, a light, pleased sound that eased that last of the nerves from his body.  Then, in one quick movement, his shorts and shoes were stripped completely away and his thighs were pressed apart by wide shoulders.  The warm mouth was back, fully engulfing him and holy fuck, the lawyer wasn’t fucking teasing anymore.  

Mickey’s back arched up in response to the sudden sensation.  His hands had found the back edge of the desk and he gripped it while his legs curled involuntarily around Peterson’s back.  His hips were held firm by strong fingers as the blond worked his dick without mercy.  

Mickey could feel his stomach tightening.  He lifted his head, trying to form the words to warn the other man but Peterson met his gaze with a smirky little wink and held his hips more firmly.  Alright, fuck it.  Mickey collapsed back across the desk top, letting all manner of moans, gasps, and expletives pour out of his mouth as the lawyer yanked his orgasm out of him.  His body tensed as he came, his legs clamping around the shoulders that were still buried between his thighs.  His hands crept down involuntarily to tangle in a silky head of hair.

It was too silky, he thought for a minute.  The texture was wrong, the color was wrong.  But no, he was pushing those thoughts from his mind right now.  He was going to focus on the things that were tangible and real, not on dreams he couldn’t take risks on anymore.  Pulling his hand back, he shut his eyes, let his body go limp against the desk top, and tried to catch his breath.  

He shivered as fingertips brushed gently up his thighs, over his stomach and up his throat.  He could feel the heat of another body and he opened his eyes, his breath catching for moment as he stared up at the blond lawyer, who gazed down at him as he ran a thumb in gentle circles over his collarbone.  

“You good?” Peterson asked in a soft and genuine voice.

Mickey had no retort.  He just nodded before realization caused him to struggle upward.  The blond seemed ready for that, though, shaking his head as he surged up and over him, gentling him back down to the desktop and shifting his hand to stroke against Mickey’s cheek.  Mickey had no real fight in him.  All he could do was stare up at the other man, who was looking him over with care in his eyes.  He was still fully dressed but he’d lost his tie somewhere in the process.  His lips were swollen but that made him look no less satisfied as he smiled down.

“None of that,” he stated quietly.  “This is about you, not me.”

“You don’t want…”

“What I want doesn’t matter.  This is about what you needed.” His mouth was suddenly very close and Mickey felt himself tense a little.  This drew an understanding smile and retreat from the other man.  “Don’t worry..  I’m not going to kiss you.”

_ Cause I’d cut your tongue out. _

Fuck.  The thought popped unbidden into his head.  He could feel the tension in his forehead but Peterson just nodded, leaning back and pulling him carefully up into a sitting position on the desk.

“Exactly,” he said, and Mickey suddenly had the strangest feeling that the guy was reading his mind, “I’m not going to kiss you or try to fuck you because I’m not the person you want.  I just wanted to help you out.”

“By blowing me?”

“Hell yeah.  You were completely stressed and needed a release.  I could’ve let you punch me a couple of times but I thought this would be more enjoyable.” He offered Mickey a smile, one that Mickey had to admit was disarming as hell.  “Maybe next time I’ll take you to the batting cages.”

Mickey smiled despite himself.  “I prefer the gun range.”

“Yeah, well, you’re on parole, sweetheart.  No guns.”

Mickey screwed up his face at the quippy little endearment, then suddenly realized that he was still sitting pantsless on Peterson’s desk.  Before he could glance around, his boxers and shorts landed on his lap.  The lawyer had walked over to a filing cabinet, offering Mickey his back and a semblance of privacy.  Sliding off the edge, he pulled his clothes back on and slid his feet back into his shoes.

“You’re not who I want to punch either,” he heard himself say.  He nearly kicked himself for the admission but Peterson was already turning around again, nodding his head.  

“I know.  I’m pretty sure the person you want to punch is the same one you want to kiss.”

He shut his eyes against that hard truth, letting himself lean back against the desk.  “Doesn’t fucking matter.  I can’t go there again.  It’s too fucking dangerous.”

The lawyer walked over and leaned next to him.  “Maybe.  I’m not going to lecture you or pretend I know what the fuck I’m talking about.  But you two have both been through some serious shit.  You’re both still standing.” he glanced at Mickey but turned his gaze away quickly, ruffling through some papers in his hand. “But I’ve got too much on my plate right now to do marriage counseling so that’s all I’m going to say about that.”

Turning back to the pile of documents in his hand, he held out a formal looking paper, written on the letterhead of the District Attorney’s Office.  

“This is a copy of the plea bargain Kate offered Terry.”

“The one he rejected?”

“Yeah.”

He skimmed his eyes over it.  

“Why aren’t Lip and Svet on here?”

“Part of the deal.  We needed to eliminate some of the charges to offer a sentence reduction.”

He could feel his hands clench up at that thought.  “No,” he spit out. “No, I’m glad he didn’t take it then.” He stood suddenly, propelled by nervous energy and paced the length of the room. “Lip and Svet, they’re not exactly my favorite people but they fucking deserve their day in court.”

“I agree,” Peterson said, sliding the document back into the pile of papers.  “And so does Gracy.  I’m not showing you this to freak you out, okay.  I don’t think we’re going to lose.  Like, I’m actually really confident and I wouldn’t lie about that shit to you.” The guy’s expression was open and genuine and Mickey found that he actually trusted him; lawyer or not, provider of amazing head or not.

“So why…”

“To protect you all,” Peterson interjected, holding his gaze, “I know Kate might have shitty personal skills but don’t underestimate her ability to give a fuck.  This is a ridiculously strong case.  We have physical evidence, corroborating witnesses and Terry himself, who is not going to play sympathetically to the jury.  She isn’t worried about losing.  She didn’t need to make a deal.  The only reason she did was because she knew what Shanley would try to do to you all on the stand.  She offered the deal to protect you.”

“She wanted to protect us?”

“Yeah.  You don’t believe me?”

Mickey broke the gaze.  “No, I do.  It’s just hard.  Most people just see us as Southie hood trash.  People usually don’t give a shit about us.”

“Well, Kate isn’t most people.  Her track record proves that.”

“Is she gonna kick your ass for this?”

“Wasn’t planning on telling her.” Peterson answered, snatching up his phone and typing away.  

Mickey smiled despite himself. “So, we’re treating this like attorney client privilege?”  There.  He could still be a fucking wiseass.

Peterson just shook his head and rolled his eyes.  “You’re my witness, not my client, but sure.”  He looked up from his phone and his expression turned serious. “Do you have any other questions right now?”

Mickey shook his head.  “No, man.  Not right now.  I’m fucking beat.”

“I know.  Your Uber will be here in five minutes.”

“My Uber?”

Peterson just shot him a mulish glare.  “Don’t fucking argue.  Just get in the car, go home and get some sleep.”

Mickey was drifting off  that night, lying on Mandy’s couch, when he suddenly bolted awake.  He couldn’t sit on this.  He couldn’t wait until the morning.  Grabbing his phone, he did a quick search for the number he had saved despite his misgivings.  He fired off a quick text and waited.

_ Hey _

_ Is late.  What? _

_ It’s Mickey. _

_ I know.   _

_ I need to talk to you. _

_ I know.  Big Dumb Papa told me you came by.  You want to talk about our boy? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peterson is a one-off thing, BTW. 
> 
> I apologize for being behind on returning people's comments. I usually try to respond before I publish the next chapter but I wanted to get this posted. 
> 
> Next up, Ian lends a hand.


	11. Seems the Only Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The extended Milkovich family cleans house.
> 
> Also, the return of Yev.
> 
> Annnndddd, mild Harry Potter Spoilers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a somewhat lengthy note at the end of the chapter.

**Sunday, July 20, 2019**

By the time the truck roared to life on the curb two doors down, Ian was already waiting on the front porch.  He watched as the rickety old thing rattled its way up the street, screeching to a halt in front of the new fence Fiona had installed last fall.  

“Good morning, brother,” Kev called from the driver’s window, “You still up for this?”

Was he?  He really wasn’t sure.  On the one hand, Mandy had said they needed all the help they could get to move all the shit out of the old Milkovich place and Ian would be lying if he didn’t admit that leaving the house that Terry Milkovich built picked clean like roadkill wouldn’t give him some vengeful satisfaction.  

On the other hand, he’d told Mickey he’d keep his distance.  

He strode out the gate and stopped by the truck, resting an arm against the ledge of the open window.  

Kev shot him an appraising look, “You coming or not, man, cause I said I’d be there by eight?”

Ian stared down at the road.  “Don’t know if I should.  He wants me to stay away from him.”

“Yeah, bullshit.”

“No.  Really.” Ian sighed and looked up. “He’s scared I’ll find a way to fuck him over again.”

“You gonna?”

“No. But why should he believe that.  It’s not like I ever planned it any other time either.  It still happened.”

Kev offered a shrug, glancing down the road through the windshield. “I get that, but he’s fucked you over, too.  I mean, aren’t you guys kind of even by now?”

“No.  Nope.  Not even close,” Ian rolled his neck, “I made a list if you want to see.”

“Ew.  You know how I feel about paperwork.” Kev glanced down at his phone. “Look, Mandy said they needed help, right?  She knows all about you guys.  If it was going to be a big deal, she wouldn’t have asked.” He shoved the device back in his pocket and met Ian’s gaze again.  “Besides, Mickey’s probably gonna be distracted.  Yevy was at the house when he stopped by.  I guess he talked to Lana because she’s coming, too.”

“With Yev?” 

“Yup.”

He shut his eyes.  Fuck.  Another relationship he’d fucked up.

“I hardly even see him anymore.”

“Yeah, well, that’s a lot of people’s faults and you know it.”

“But you’re still there for him.”

Now it was Kevin’s turn to roll out his neck.  “Ian...Jesu...you know what, just get in.”  He threw open the driver’s side door, tumbling out and grabbing Ian by the shoulder. “Get in the fucking truck.  I don’t have time for this shit right now.”  The shove he gave was good natured but firm and Ian let himself be manhandled up through the door and into the passenger seat.  

Kev slammed the door and the ancient ice cream truck roared to life again as he turned away from the curb and pulled out onto the road. 

“You good?” he asked with genuine concern in his voice.  

Ian could only shrug. “It’s fine.”

“You gotta stop this shit, man. You can’t just dwell on all the bad stuff all the time.  It’s going to fuck up your chi or your aura or something.”

“My aura?” Ian asked, a smile splitting his lips despite his nerves.

“Yeah, or something.  Fuck, man, I don’t know, but this isn’t good for you.  You’ve done a lot of good in the last few years.  I mean, hell, you’ve saved lives.  I’m not saying there isn’t stuff that can be laid at your feet but you’ve got to stop trying to take the blame for everything.” 

Ian let himself lean back against the old chair, resting his feet against the dash.  He could feel his nerves kicking in as Kev made a left turn off Homan.  “I’ll try.” he muttered as he stared up the street.

“Well, good, cause enough is enough.  You keep this up and I’m going to get you one of those whips that the crazy Medieval guys would carry around.  You know, to beat themselves for the world’s sins or some shit.”

“You mean flagellants?”

“Flagell…” Kev shot him a crazy sideways glance, “You mean, like...gas?”

“Gas?  No, fuck…” A peal of laughter tore out of Ian before he could help, a genuine smile splitting his lips as he shook his head.  “That’s fucking  _ flatulence,  _ Kev.  Jesus Christ.”

“Well, whatever,” Kev grumbled, shaking his head, “The point is, well, you get my point.”

Ian’s chuckle choked off but the mood had been lightened.  He nodded.  “I’ll try.”

“Alright then,” Kev nodded as they bumped up the road.

Ian let his eyes wander out the window, taking in the familiar homes.  “I think Mandy only asked me to help so that Iggy and Colin could beat on me instead of Ron.”

“That’s the new guy?”

“Yeah.”

“You okay with him?”

“Hell yeah.  He’s a good guy.”

“That’s good.  She deserves it.”

“Yeah, I think even she’s starting to believe that finally.”

Ian glanced out the window as Kev drove past the old brick house, made a quick u-turn, and pulled up in front of the place.  He let his eyes scan over the scene in front of him.  Iggy and Colin were standing on the front steps.  They looked stern and imposing, but Ian was familiar enough with true Milkovich badassery to know that they were just fucking around.  Ron was there too, dressed in a simple gray tank and basketball shorts, his brown hair and beard trim but tousled.  He was leaning against the banister with an amused look in his eyes.  Ian could almost have sat back and watched the little scene reach it’s conclusion, but the figure to the right, leaning forward against the outside of the beat-up chain link fence, suddenly picked that moment to glance over his shoulder.  

Mickey.

Their eyes locked and Ian could feel his whole body tense, but Mickey just raised his chin in casual greeting.  Ian’s hand slipped unbidden to the door handle and he slid out onto the ground without ever breaking the gaze.  He approached the brunette hesitantly, studying him for any signs of reservation, but Mickey looked more relaxed than Ian had seen him in months.  His stare never wavered, not even when Ian leaned an elbow on the fence beside him.

“Hey.”

“What’s up, man?”

The words rolled off his tongue so easily but they were also so achingly familiar, like the Mickey from before, the Mickey he remembered.  He wanted to seize on that familiarity, to tell Micky how sorry he was again, but he bit down on the self-serving words. He wasn’t here for that.  Instead, he turned and gestured mildly towards the stairs. 

“They’re really shitting on poor Ron.” 

The snort Mickey offered sounded genuine, “Nah, man.” he said, his voice quiet but steady, “He’s giving as good as he gets.  Or better.” Ian could see him rock back on his heels, grabbing on to the top of the fence with his hands. “You like him?”

“I do,” he answered honestly. “You?”

“Yeah,” the brunette answered easily, “I mean, I was careful at first, but hell, what’s not to like?  He treats her good.  Doesn’t seem scared off by all our bullshit.  And he’s stuck around through all this.  Makes her feel safe, you know?”

Mickey had fixed his gaze on the trio on the stairs and Ian chanced a sideways glance at him.  His blue eyes were assessing but not critical as he examined his baby sister’s boyfriend.  Ian felt a rush of warmth suffuse him, starting from his stomach and spreading through his extremities.  Mickey’s color was better, his eyes brighter.  The scary gauntness in his cheeks had filled out a little, though he could still stand to put on more weight.  And he’d talked to him. He’d asked Ian’s opinions about something that mattered and shared his own.

It was a tiny piece of trust, but Ian would take it.  He’d treasure it like goddamned gold. 

“I finished the books.”

“What?” Ian snapped out of his thoughts, glancing back at Mickey.  The brunette’s blue eyes were still fixed on the stairs but the corner of his lips were curved up in the barest hint of a smile. The books?  Right, the books he’d brought Mickey in jail.

“And.”

“Pretty fucked up.  The potions professor?”

Ian smiled.  “Yeah, the asshole turned out to be the hero all along.”

A sliver of tension ran up his spine as he uttered those words and he suddenly worried that he was pushing too fast.  Mickey nodded absently, but his shoulders hunched protectively for a second before he forced them back down.  His ease seemed manufactured, though, and Ian was struggling with what to say when Mandy’s little jeep suddenly pulled up behind Kev’s truck.  They both turned towards her, watching as she glared through the windshield at the little house.  

“Shit,” Mickey muttered under his breath.

Ian glanced at him. “Is she gonna be okay today?”

“Don’t know,” Mickey replied, pushing off the fence and taking a step toward the jeep.  “You were with her the last time she stopped by here.  What do you think?”

He shrugged.  “We were in and out in five minutes.  This is different.”  He watched as Mandy gripped the steering wheel in both hands, frustrated tears pooling in her eyes. “Let’s give her a minute.”

“Yeah.”

Ian glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, assessing him.   The brunette’s face was set in an mostly emotionless mask but there was clear worry in his eyes as he took in little sister hovering in her car.  He was obviously stressed and as much as Ian didn’t want to be sent away, he knew he had to ask.

“Are you alright with this?  I mean, with me helping out?”

“Yeah,” came the quick reply, setting his heart at ease.  Mickey chewed nervously at the corner of his lip for a second, then added, “You got a right to be here.  You lived in that house.  You fucking bled in that house.” He met Ian’s eyes for a mere second, the honesty of his words written across his face, “You get to help tear it apart.”  

Ian could only nod, staring at the ground as he took in Mickey’s words.  This simple moving day had taken on so much meaning.  He hoped it gave them all some fucking peace.  

Their thoughts were interrupted by a sudden movement next to them.  A good natured, “Hello, gentlemen,” was thrown their way as Ron strode by them, intent on Mandy’s car door.  He pulled it open and ducked inside, speaking to her softly as she turned into his shoulder.  

“Everybody doing alright?” Kev asked as he jumped down from the back of the truck and approached them.  Mickey nodded as Mandy finally folded herself out of the jeep, heading towards the sidewalk with Ron. 

“I’m fine,” she said, shooting everyone a murderous glare even as she stepped in between Ian and her brother and wrapped an arm around both their waists.  Ian slid his arm around her shoulder reflexively, his fingertips brushing against Mickey’s as the other man did the same.  Their eyes met for a second over Mandy’s head but the awkward moment was immediately interrupted as Mandy hauled them towards the gate.  

The two older Milkovichs were still standing on stairs, watching them approach.  Ian felt both their gazes land on him. Iggy looked murderous but Colin’s was much more considering as he took a step down the stairs.  He threw a glance at his middle brother and shook his head slowly with a pointed glare, before shooting Ian the same look.  

No drama.  Ian was on board with that.

“You two still good with this?” he asked his younger siblings.

Mandy unwound her arms and took two steps up, gazing at the house with a blank expression.  When she turned, she looked resolved.  

“We’re doing this.”

Iggy grumbled.  “Jamie?”

“Can come live with me, like I said,” Colin interjected.  He glanced at Mickey, then up at the house.  “We’re doing this.”

“Then let’s do it the fuck now,” Iggy muttered, climbing the stairs and throwing open the front door.  

The rest of the group followed him up the stairs.  

The inside of the house was as dark as it always was, as if the bad memories ate the light.  When Ian had come here with Mandy the last time, they’d gone through the back door, straight to her old bedroom, and right back out.  Now he paused inside the door and gazed around the interior.  It was dusty and grimy, but not as filthy as one might think for house that had been completely abandoned for almost two years.  Ian’s stomach rolled harshly at the realization.  Of course it was clean.  That’s why Mandy was here when Terry got out in the first place. 

Bile rose in his throat.  He swallowed it down harshly, but it rebounded in his stomach like a brick.  All around him, people were moving, talking, making plans to move shit, but he was rooted firmly to the floor.  Looking down, he realized with growing horror that he was standing in the doorway to the living room, in the exact spot he’d been, half-naked and bleeding, when Terry had sent a death stare at him down the barrel of a gun.  

Ian could feel his vision tunneling as he eyes hyper focused on the details of the room.  The orange and white of the knitted afghan still graced the back of the couch where he and Mickey had laughed, shared a smoke and eaten fucking totinos; where’d they’d been fucking when Terry walked in.  He could see the dull gleam of the torn leather loveseat that had broken his fall when Terry landed the first hit.  The shitty armchair where he’d hovered helplessly and cried while Terry had forced Mickey and Svetlana to…

“Hey!”

A hand was on his shoulder and he leaned against it unwittingly as the floor rocked beneath his feet.  His vision was spotting around the periphery and he pressed his eyes closed against the sudden vertigo, letting his body roll like a ship on high seas, the hand on his shoulder the only means by which he could right himself.  

He slammed his lips shut. He refused to puke.  He refused to give this fucking house the satisfaction.  

“Hey!”

The voice was there again.  It was attached to the hand that was holding him straight.  Ian breathed slowly, once, twice, three times, and the voice started to make sense in a sludgy, distant way.

“Hey...Are you...Ian...Are you…”

“What?”

“Ian!”

He opened his eyes, whirling around to grasp at the forearm that belonged to the hand on his shoulder.  As second hand grasped his other arm and he found himself staring into blue eyes, deep, open and worried.  

“Ian!”

“Mickey?”

Ian whipped his head to the side again, taking in the old living room.  It was dull now, the color dingy and washed out by the dark curtains and dirt coated window panes.  Turning his gaze back to the brunette in front of him, he realized that he was digging his hands into Mickey’s arms like a lifeline.  Shame and self-loathing flooded him and he pulled away, only to feel the floor betray him again as the walls began to spin. 

Mickey was quick.  He grabbed him by the shoulders again, his grip vice-like and unbreakable, holding him steady.  Ian chuckled darkly against the irony of the moment.  He was here to help Mickey, and here Mickey was, practically keeping him on his feet.  He had promised himself he’d keep his distance, and he was literally fainting in his ex-boyfriend’s arms.  His laughter turned hysterical and bitter as he let his eyes fall shut again.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” The hands gave him a shake, not aggressive but insistent.  Groaning, he forced his eyes open again and met Mickey’s gaze.

“Are you alright?”  The brunette demanded, the tiniest bit of familiar steel emerging from the quiet tenor of his voice.

Ian nodded, furious at himself for the loss of control.  He pulled back for real this time, standing under his own power, but Mickey’s hands stayed on his arms and Ian wasn’t about to shake him off.  Instead, he let his eyes wander around the room again.  That’s all it was; a room.  It had no power, good or evil.  It was second hand furniture and an old bay window and Ian didn’t have the time to be afraid of that shit.  

He slid his arms away carefully, allowing himself the luxury of a grateful squeeze to Mickey’s hands before he released them and took a step back.  His back met the frame of the door and he leaned against it gladly as his gaze settled on the floor.

“Sorry,” he managed, his own voice weak and quiet now.

“Okay,” came the quick reply, “Now fucking answer me.  Are you alright?”  

The voice still wasn’t vintage Mickey, but it was the closest thing to it that he’d heard since the brunette had “fuck you’d” him and headed south of the border.  The sound sent a charge through him, and he took a deep breath, shaking his head clear from the bullshit, and met Mickey’s gaze.

“I’m alright.” he stated, his voice firmer and his vision steady.  He glanced into the room again, but looked away quickly, unwilling to tempt fate.  

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” he muttered, frustration ribboning through his voice, “I’ve been in this room a hundred times since that day.”

Mickey nodded, but kept his own eyes averted from the room, “Yeah, but we’d buried all that shit then.  Now it’s all dug up again.  Changes the landscape, you know.”

Ian exhaled slowly.  “Yeah,” he sighed, pushing away from the wall, “You’re right.” He glanced around the house again but the dark memories seemed to have faded into the background again, because Mickey had pushed them away and took care of him.  Like he always did.

“Mandy needs our help,” Mickey said, turning down the hall.  Ian moved to follow him when he heard the squeak of the front door hinges.  

Mickey spun around, his defenses clearly raised, but his tension collapsed into utter vulnerability as Ian watched.  Turning himself, he immediately saw the cause.  

Svetlana was standing in the doorway, wearing sneakers and old clothes, with her hair shoved up in a messy bun on her head.  She looked like a typical mom. Or maybe the image was helped by the chubby cheeked little blonde boy standing next to her, rocking his own little Sox cap with a book bag on his back.  

The kid had gotten bigger even in the months since Ian had seen him last.  Behind him, he heard Mickey draw in a breath as the little boy’s intelligent blue eyes gave the room around him a discerning examination.  There was no assessment needed, though, when his eyes finally found his father, still hovering in the back hall.  He lit up like a light, blasting away all the shadows as he strode confidently into the house, stopping at Mickey’s feet and raising his arms.  

“Hug,” he demanded imperiously.

Mickey looked terrified but he didn’t hesitate to comply, swinging the little boy up into his arms and cradling his head under his chin.  Ian could see his eyes fall closed for a moment as he breathed in the scent of Yev’s hair.

The little boy didn’t wait long.  Pulling back, he wrapped one chubby arm around the back of Mickey’s neck and launched into a detailed description about the contents of his backpack.  Mickey stared at the little face raptly, but his attention was suddenly drawn away as he glanced around the dim hallway and found Svetlana and Ian.

“I don’t want him in here,” he stated at them, striding towards the door, “I’m gonna take him out in the yard…” he was gone out the door before he finished, carrying the little guy down the stairs. 

“Hat stays on,” Svetlana called after him before turning her gaze on Ian.

“Did you tell?” Ian asked, his eyes still fixed on the doorway.

“Not yet,” she replied carefully, “He asked.  I don’t answer but offer to let him see ‘the man’ today.  But my boy is smart.  He suspects.” She glanced at the doorway herself.  Out on the porch steps, Mickey was examining a drawing as Yev pointed out parts and explained them in great detail.  “The picture I gave was old.  And he is much thinner now.” She raised a chin in Mickey’s direction, her face long with what Ian suspected might be the Svetlana version of concern.

“They are fine,” she decreed, turning into the house.  “C’mon, Carrot Boy.  There is work to do.”

Forty-five minutes later, Ian was already dripping sweat, lying on his side with an ancient wrench and screwdriver, taking apart Mandy’s old queen sized bed.  He was working on collapsing the box frame while Colin took apart the headboard. 

He was genuinely shocked at the lack of animosity being thrown his way by the blonde middle Milkovich.  Ian had lived with Iggy for the better part of a year, but Colin had moved out on his own by then and had only come around occasionally.  Nonetheless, he’d expected a fair share of aggression when Mandy had assigned him the task of taking the bed apart with one of her brothers.  Instead, he’d received nothing but the same assessing look Colin had given him on the front steps.  Ian didn’t know what to do about it.  Colin was sizing him up, but not because he was planning where to bury his body, of that Ian was sure.  He just wasn’t sure of anything else and as the bed finally came apart completely, he had finally resolved to ask.

His intentions were interrupted by Mandy.

“Can you come with me for a minute.”

He nodded, following her out of the room.  At the end of the hall, he could see Ron and Iggy wrestling a dresser out the front door, but his stomach tensed for a moment when Mandy turned and led him into the large, open space that had once been the room he’d shared with Mickey.

“Where the hell’s the bed?” he blurted out, glancing around.  The posters and shit were all still there, but the room had no furniture in it. 

“I took it,” Svetlana said, edging around him to walk into the room, “when I first move above Alibi.”  

Ian groaned under his breath and closed his eyes.  The day was already mentally and physically exhausting and it wasn’t even ten am.  He was not getting into the fucked up melodrama of Kev, Vee, and Svet and who owned what part of what bar.  He didn’t have the energy for that shit today.  

“So what bed does Mickey get?” he asked, wincing a little at the protective aggression in his voice.  Mandy glanced at him.  She’d clearly heard it, but she didn’t seem particularly bothered by his tone. 

“You just took it apart.” she said simply.

“He’s taking your bed?” he asked blankly.

Mandy rolled her eyes.  “Ian, wake the fuck up.  I don’t need a bed.  I already have one.  You’ve seen it.  Hell, you’ve sat on it.”  She took a step into the room.  “We wanted to let you have a look at this stuff, to grab anything you needed.”  She gestured towards the pile of crap in the middle of the empty floor.  

He took a step forward.  “What is all this shit?”

“Leftovers,” Svetlana said from where she leaned against the wall.  “The things we did not take when we left.”

He glanced at the pile, seeing it now for what it was.  The collection of old clothes, magazines, and general clutter was tangled together and coated with a decent layer of grime.  He could see some of his own shit mixed in with stuff he recognized as Mickey’s and Svetlana’s.

“Yours, mine and ours,” She quipped, toeing distastefully at the pile.  “If you want anything, you take it now.  Otherwise, it all goes.”

“Mickey doesn’t need his shit?  Like, his clothes and stuff?”

“No,” came a voice behind him.  He turned to meet Mandy’s eyes.  “He’s got plenty of new stuff.  All this old shit is going.”  There was a look of fiery determination in her eyes as she glared at the pile.  Ian wasn’t about to question it.  He glanced at the pile carefully, his eyes honing in on particular items; a green tank top, and old Hawaiian shirt.  He turned away from the pile, meeting Mandy’s gaze. There was nothing there that wasn’t as coated with negative associations as it was with old dust.

“It can all go,” he said.  

She nodded.

The work progressed throughout the morning, as furniture and other random shit was divided up among the four Milkovichs.  The bed of Colin’s pick-up and the interior of Mandy’s jeep were full, but the majority of the stuff ended up in Kev’s aging ice cream truck, to be delivered to Mickey’s new home.  

The brunette himself had hardly noticed the process, still sitting in the corner of the front yard with Yev, exploring the contents of the kid’s backpack in minute detail.  He’d cast them a guilty look at first, scrambling to his feet as Ian and Ron had wrestled the headboard down the front stairs, but Ron had simply asked, “You got the kid there, right?  He’s clear?” and that was that.  Mickey’s job was to keep Yev out of the way and safe.  No one was arguing, least of all the brunette who was listening to the little blond boy explain the different Aquanauts as if the kid was revealing the mysteries of alchemy.

It was great to see and Ian found himself leaning against the railing, staring down at the little reunion before he caught himself and demanded that he stop being a creep.  Forcing himself away, he ducked back inside.  

The house was pretty empty now, most of the furniture and bags of shit packed into vehicles for relocation or disposal.  Mandy and Iggy were standing in the front hall, looking around idly and speaking under their breath.  They both looked over when he walked in.

“So what’s the plan for this place,” he asked, forcing a casual tone he didn’t feel into his voice.

“Depends,” Mandy answered, letting her eyes continue to wander around.  “We might see if we have the right to sell it.  If not, we just walk away.” She sighed, letting her eyes fall to the floor, “It all depends on the trial, though. So, we’ll see.”

“What are your fucking plans?”

Ian glanced up at the sound of Iggy’s voice.  He’d been lulled by the general sense of unified purpose that had accompanied the house purging.  This was more like what he’d been expecting from Colin and Iggy; protective aggression in the defense of their little brother.

He shrugged, fighting to keep his face neutral as he met Iggy’s eyes. “My plan is to stay out of his way,” he replied simply.  “That’s what he asked me to do.  That’s what I’m trying to do.”

“Good!” Iggy sneered at the same time that Mandy muttered, “Ian!” in an exasperated voice.  The two siblings turned towards each other, a silent but furious argument commencing with their eyes.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Iggy finally spit at his little sister, taking a step back.  Ian narrowed his eyes in confusion as he watched the little battle conclude.  Whatever the outcome, it had obviously been decided in Mandy’s favor, because Iggy threw a furious glare his way and stalked out the front door.  Ian stared after him, then turned around to face the incredulous gaze of his best friend.

“That’s what you’re going to do?” she asked with a healthy dose of passive aggression.

Ian sighed.  He could feel the tension building in his head.  “Yes!” he stated, crossing his arms, “That’s what I’m going to do.” He was suddenly painfully aware of the open front door and the potential audience behind him, and dropped his volume. “He told me to stay away and I’m respecting that.”

“You’re here now.”

“You asked me to come!”

“And that’s why you’re here?  Because I asked you to come?”

Ian leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes in frustration.  There was no winning here.  His opponent knew him too well.

“Mands, you’ve said it yourself. I hurt him, bad.  I don’t want to do that shit anymore.  But don’t dick me around here.  You know I don’t want to stay away from him, but that’s what he wants and that’s what matters.”

Now it was Mandy’s turn to look frustrated.  “He doesn’t know what he wants.” she bit out.

“What he wants is for people to not fuck with him!”

“Then don’t fuck with him.”

“Fucking Christ, Mandy, I’m trying but I can’t read his mind!”

Her expression turned mulish, eyebrows raised.  She stepped forward, pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, and stared right into his eyes.  “You can’t read his mind?” she asked, her voice dripping with false innocence.  She headed towards the front door, turning back to glance over her shoulder.  “Since when?”  

Closing his eyes, Ian let his head fall back against the wall.  His mind was swimming.  He had too much to think about and he couldn’t sort through all this shit right now.  No, right now, what he needed was to get out of this poisonous house and never come back.  

He opened his eyes and went to turn, but a sudden thought hit him. Striding through the barren dining room, he walked into the little kitchen and snatched something off the fridge, stuffing it in his pocket. 

He had a feeling it would come in handy later.

Then he fled the abandoned house.

Ian wasn’t sure how to feel about the turn of events that landed him in the ice cream truck, heading to the police co-op with Kev to help unload all of Mickey’s shit, but when he thought about what was in his pocket, he realized maybe he’d known it would work out that way.  By the time he’d made it out to the curb, the decision had already been made.  Iggy was heading off with Colin, Ron was going with Mandy, and Svetlana was taking the flagging three year old home for a nap.  Yev had been dangerously close to a meltdown by then, clinging to Mickey’s neck as he and Svetlana tried to talk the poor kid down.  Only a solemn pinky promise from Mickey that he would come see Yev’s room the next day had finally placated the little guy.

Mickey sat in the back, slouched down in an armchair, as they drove through the city.  The truck was quiet, each person lost in their thoughts as they navigated through the streets.  Ian had seen Svetlana speak quietly to Kev before she left. He had not idea what had been said, but it rendered the big man as morose as the rest of the truck’s inhabitants.

The co-op wasn’t too fancy, but it was definitely nice; a large brick building surrounded by trees and a wrought iron fence.  Ian followed Kev to the back of the truck, grabbing pieces of the bed frame as Mickey went inside to clear the path and open the door.  The Supervisor’s living quarters was the only unit on the first floor.  Considering the weight of the headboard, Ian found he was pretty grateful for that.

Mickey had propped the door open and they carried the stuff in.  Ian glanced around quickly.  The apartment wasn’t huge but it was comfortable.  The layout was actually pretty similar to Mandy’s place, but with a small second bedroom off the living room.  That seemed to be a good sign.  Yev could even have his own room.  

Between the three of them, they got the bed, dresser, kitchen table, and living room furniture into the apartment.  Ian glanced around the little front room.  Mandy and Iggy had scavenged an armchair, two end tables, and the entertainment unit with the old TV.  The couch had been left behind to rot in Terry’s house.  

Ian was still staring when Mickey walked in.  His gaze drifted around the room, and Ian could see that he realized it, too.  Their eyes met and held for a moment, shared relief and a hint of satisfaction evident in both, before Mickey gave him a little nod.

“Come give me a hand?” He asked as he headed towards his bedroom.

Ian followed wordlessly. 

It took them less than half an hour to assemble the bed as Kev carried that last small items out of the truck.  As they laid the mattress down and shoved it up against the headboard, Ian noted with a certain amount of satisfaction that they’d just worked together to complete a project, like two grown ass men. 

He was probably overthinking it, but he didn’t really give a shit.  It made him feel good anyway.

He leaned against the doorframe, watching Mickey as he stared down at the mattress with a wistful expression on his face.

“What are you thinking?” he heard himself ask.

“That I want to lie down,” came the candid reply.  “And sleep,” the brunette tacked on quickly.

Ian snorted but the comment still sent a jolt of concern through him.  “Are you sleeping alright?” he asked.

Mickey shrugged.  “I’m trying.  I really am.  It’s hard.”

“But you’re eating better.”

Mickey rolled his eyes.  “Yeah, mom,” he muttered as he headed towards the door.  Ian shifted out of his way, following him down the hallway.

“So, does that mean if I make you more chicken, you’ll eat it?” 

Mickey shrugged as he headed out the front door.

Ian decided to take that as a win.

He moved to follow the shorter man when something on the end table caught his eye.  He took two steps forward and reached out for it.  It was a crayon drawing of two figures, clearly a dad and his kid, childish but pretty damn good for a three year old.  Reaching into his pocket, Ian closed his fingers around the chipped little magnet he’d grabbed and stuck Yev’s drawing to the fridge door.  It looked good up there.

He glanced around the little space again, wondering what it would look like when it was all put together.  Wondering if he’d ever be allowed to see it again.  His chest ached and his eyes burned but he drove the feelings away for now.  Mandy’s words were resonating with him, but while he couldn’t say for certain what Mickey needed, he sure as shit didn’t need Ian’s tears at this moment.

He’d been good all day.  He wasn’t going to fuck it up now.  It was time for him to get out of Mickey’s home.  

Kev was already in the driver’s seat, talking to Mickey out the open window.  Not wanting to push, Ian jumped into the passenger’s seat.  Suddenly, all he wanted was to put his head back and sleep. He was just letting himself doze when a hollow, metallic knock rang out against the passenger side door.  

He jolted up.  Mickey was standing outside the window, staring in.  

For a moment, they both peered at each other wordlessly over the threshold of the window.  Ian couldn’t find his voice.   The weight of the moment was oppressively heavy and no words seemed capable of covering it.  He just let himself look, memorizing every detail of Mickey, tired and sweat stained but safe in his new home.  

Mickey was biting at his lip, a tell Ian would’ve recognized anywhere.  The brunette couldn’t find the words either.  As they stared at each other, Ian opted to see this as a good thing.  Mickey had a lot of shit to sort through, too, but he wasn’t yelling at him or hiding behind a wall of reserve so high it could never be breached.

Maybe they’d be able to talk about this shit someday soon.  

He hoped.

“Thanks for the help,” Mickey finally uttered, looking up at him from under his lashes.  

Ian’s hands were shaking with nerves but he fought to hold the gaze and keep his voice open and casual, “No problem man.”

“I’ll see you around.”

The weight of those simple words hit them both.

Neither said anything.  Any response carried too much commitment. But neither of them looked away as Kev engaged the clutch.

Mickey’s hand fell away from the window as Kev pulled off the curb.  Ian leaned forward, resting an arm on the ledge to look back at the brunette as the truck lurched forward.

He held the blue-eyed gaze until the truck turned onto the road and Mickey was out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to note that the character of Trevor was not tagged on this fic. I had intended to tag him, since he's a major supporting character in the story. The oversight was accidental and has been fixed. I apologize for the oversight. 
> 
> I will also point out that Trevor is going to continue to appear in this story. I recognize that some people have issues with this character. I don't. I am not a particular fan of his relationship with Ian or how it progressed but I find the character as a whole to be positive. This entire story is outlined. No characters or events are included without specific purpose. This includes events from the previous chapter. It also includes Trevor. I feel that he is the appropriate character to serve the role that I've planned for him. Unnecessarily aggressive comments will not change that. 
> 
> This is a long story. I estimate that it will fall around 120,000 words by the end. Possibly more. However, that will include the resolution of all storylines. The story is going to start speeding up very quickly in the next few chapters. I don't want to divulge too much detail but I also realize that with a traditional novel, you can gauge these things just by looking at the thickness of the book. So, this chapter tentatively marks the halfway point, or the almost halfway point. 
> 
> Things are amping up here. Hope you all enjoy it!


	12. No More Can They Keep Us In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey gets (some of) his groove back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a crazy chapter. I honestly contemplated cutting it in half but I really feel like all of this needs to be experienced in one sitting. That being said, I would recommend that readers pause and take a breath when it shifts to Ian's perspective. 
> 
> Not to give too much away but we're probably hitting peak angst in this chapter. However, it will be a slow, bumpy slide down the other side of the mountain.

**August 5, 2019**

The little jeep navigated the streets easily, which was more than Mickey could say for all the shit heaps he’d previously driven around Chicago, on runs for his old man in his misspent youth. This thing turned when you wanted, stopped when you wanted.  It had electric windows and a nice moonroof.  And AC.  Couldn’t forget the AC.

The jeep was Mandy’s baby.  She treasured it, cleaned it fanatically, and never, never, let anyone else drive it.

Normally, Mickey would’ve enjoyed the opportunity to take the little SUV for a spin around the city.  Today, though, he had no enthusiasm for it.  He wanted Mandy in the driver’s seat where she belonged, blasting shitty music with her hands steady on the wheel.  He wanted her to feel safe.

Instead, he drove, while Mandy sat in the passenger’s seat.  She was pale and exhausted and there was a noticeable tremor in her hands.  It was twisting his guts up to see her like this but there hadn’t been a damn thing he could do.  

Mandy had been on the stand for four days.  

She absolutely refused to talk about it and Mickey, as a fellow witness, hadn’t been allowed to go with her to court.  He wasn’t exactly sure what had gone on in there, but he could guess.  This was what Peterson had warned him about, what Gracy had tried to prevent.  Terry’s lawyer had put her through hell.

She had insisted she’d be fine, that she didn’t need Ron to take off from work and go with her, and by the end of the first day, she was still doing okay.  But it had been the prosecution questioning her and they had turned things over to the defense near the close of court on day two.  The next morning,  everything had gone to hell.

Peterson has called him at the first recess, asking if there was any way Ron could come to the courthouse.  The ADA had kept his voice calm but it had sent a shiver of panic up Mickey’s spine anyway.  He’d demanded to know what’s going on.

“I can’t get into this with you,” Peterson had explained carefully, “I really can’t.  I can’t compromise you as a witness.”

“What the fuck…”

“Micky, it’s bad, as bad as we thought it would be.  But listen to me.  She’s doing okay.  She really is and I wouldn’t lie to you about that.  She’s okay, but she needs support.  She needs it.”

Mickey had groaned, pressing the palm of his hand to his pulsing head. “Ron wanted to come.  I wanted him to come.  She insisted she’d be fine.”

He’d heard Peterson sigh through the phone, “I know.  She told me.  She also said she was wrong.  She needs him here.”

“I’ll get him there.”

He’d texted the other guy frantically, his fingers fucking up the letters the first two times.

_ R u around? _

Then he’d leaned back against the wall of the co-op’s fifth floor hallway, new and used light bulb boxes littering the floor at his feet and let himself fall into remonstration.  Why the hell had he let her go there alone?  

In truth, though, he hadn’t.  Everyone had tried to talk her into bringing support. The problem, of course, had been who to take.  Practically everyone they knew was on the list of potential witnesses, barred from the courtroom until after closing arguments.  It would have to be Ron, but Mandy had been deadset against that.  She didn’t want him to have to listen to all the details in open court and she didn’t want him to hear any of the shit Terry’s lawyer might try to throw at her about her past.  Hell, she didn’t want Terry to know Ron existed in the first place.  

His phone had beeped.

_ Does she need me there?! _

Mickey had exhaled.  He hoped Mandy had the brains to marry this guy.

_ Yeah _ , he’d texted back.

_ Tell them I’ll be there in 20. _

And he had been.  He’d remained through the final two days of her testimony, bringing Mandy home and staying with her each night.  But Ron had a crazy job and limited sick days, so he’d called Mickey this morning and dropped Mandy and the jeep off on his way into work.  She’d been pale and shaky but she’d taken a long look around his place and a manic sheen of determination had entered her eyes.

And that was how Mickey had ended up here.  

“It’s the next left.”

Mickey followed the directions, turning into the large parking lot.  The building had once been owned by some cheap retail chain that had gone under, but it had been converted into a huge thrift store years ago.  Mickey put the jeep in park, grimacing a little as he looked at the store.  He had a feeling he was about to surrender a huge chunk of his paycheck, but hell, he did need stuff.  And if this gave Mandy something to do to keep her mind off shit, then that was okay with him.

She was already out of the car, striding with purpose towards the building.  He grabbed the keys and jogged after her.  The inside of the store was huge, too.  There were tons of clothes racks off the right, furniture to the left, and the whole middle contained shelf after shelf of household goods.  His sister had gone straight for the row of shopping carts inside the door.  Grabbing the first one, she headed off to the farthest shelf.  Mickey sighed under the sudden realization that they were definitely going to go up and down every single aisle.  Well, whatever.  The more she moved, the better her color looked.  

They walked the rows for over an hour, starting with bathroom shit.  At first, Mandy kept trying to ask his opinions but when he waved his hand and told her he trusted her judgement, she seized all the control.  She’d filled a cart with towels, a chipped but functional vanity set, and a couple of newish looking matching sheets.  Now she was working on a second cart for the kitchen, sorting through different pots and pans. Then dishes.  Then utensils.  Then appliances.

They might be here all day.

Mickey was now relegated to pushing the full cart, complete with Mandy’s purse shoved in the basket, along in her wake.  He was vaguely examining all the different shit he would soon own and amusing himself by making up crazy stories in his head about the other shoppers.  He almost didn’t notice when Mandy’s phone suddenly beeped.  

He looked up.  She was holding two frying pans, glancing back and forth between them like the decision was life or death.  She looked better, though, and he really didn’t want to pull her out of her headspace if he didn’t have to.  

The phone beeped again.

Fuck.

He reached in the purse and pulled it out, glancing at the screen.

Ian.

Mickey exhaled as a litany of  _ fuckfuckfuckfucks _ ran through his head.  Ian was Mandy’s best friend.  He would want to make sure she was alright.  He wouldn’t just stop.

Mickey let the phone sit on top of the purse for a second as he slowly pushed the cart up the row.  Mandy had wandered to the next aisle and he needed to think.  

He hadn’t seen the redhead since the day he’d helped move him into the apartment, but Mickey’d thought about him every damn day.  It had been manageable, if not easy, to block Ian from his thoughts in his little corner of Buenos Aires but there was no escaping all the things that triggered memories back here.  

The last few weeks had been such a confusing mess for him.  He’d met with Tony and a few of the other cops or spouses who made up the co-op board.  They’d hashed out some of the finer language in the building bylaws, but by the time they were done, Mickey realized that he now had a real job, one he could do well.  He’d thrown himself right into it.

He felt stronger now, clearer.  He’d visited Svetlana’s little condo, seen the normal life she was trying to build for their kid, and realized he’d do anything he could to help protect that.  He suddenly had direction and purpose, but while those things felt great on the surface, when he dug down deep, he knew there were two issues that he wasn’t letting go of; a debilitating fear that he would somehow lose all the good things he’d just acquired, and an equally deep longing to share his good fortune.  Despite all the warnings he’d given himself about keeping things simple, about not reaching too high, he just couldn’t seem to help it. 

And that was the problem, of course.  The person he most wanted to share it with was also the one with the longest track record of razing shit to the ground.

He sighed as he rounded the corner.  Mandy had moved on to pots.  The phone was still silent.

He hadn’t intended to really talk to Ian the day of the move, but he wasn’t gonna come down too hard on himself over it.  It had been a hell of a day and besides, Ian had been trying to help.  He  _ had  _ helped, breaking down furniture, hauling shit out of the house, while Mickey’d just sat off to the side with his kid.  

He sighed.  He’d been avoiding Ian like it was his job.  He’d told Ian that he forgave him and that was probably the truth, at least most of the time, but he’d also been adamant that he couldn’t ever let himself be around the other man again.  He couldn’t keep reliving the endless cycle of who did what to who and why.  He’d thought he had it pretty well in hand, but look what had happened.  The weeks of distance hadn’t even mattered as soon as Ian had climbed out of Kev’s truck.  Mickey’s whole chest had clenched the second he’d seen him.  He hadn’t been able to keep his stupid mouth shut, hadn’t been able to stop himself from reaching out and helping when he saw the other man in pain.  

And he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about what it might be like if they actually gave it another try.  Because apparently he never fucking learned.

But he was getting a little ahead of himself.  Who the hell said Ian even wanted to get together again anyway?  Mickey groaned out loud and shook his head, clearing it.  No, no, he wasn’t going to do this.  He wasn’t going to go falling down the self-loathing rabbit hole again.  He’d dragged himself off Mandy’s couch and gotten back in the game, mostly.  He wasn’t going backwards.  Ian had visited him in prison, had sought him out and offered help.  Ian was only staying away because he was trying to give Mickey what he wanted.  

Mickey wasn’t so sure that was what he wanted anymore.  But still, he was scared and confused as hell.  Ian was healthy now, anyone could see that.  And for the first time in years, neither of them was on the run from the cops.  They both had real jobs.  No one would have to run scams to make money.  

But still.  How many times could a person take the same chance?  

He groaned, resting his forehead against the cart handle.  He could go round and round with this bullshit but he knew at least one thing for certain.  Ian Gallagher was still under his skin.  He was going to have to figure out what the fuck to do about it.  

Mandy’s phone rang.

Ian.

Of course it was.  Mickey sighed, but he didn’t even hesitate.  He just picked up the little device and hit answer.

“You looking for Mandy?”

“Mick?”

“Yeah.”

A beat of silence. 

“Yeah...I mean...are you good.  I mean, is she good?” Ian’s nerves were practically palpable, even through the phone. “I just wanted to check on her.  Ron had work, right?”

“Yeah,” Mickey answered, glancing up at his sister again.  She held up some big, round pot, a triumphant smile on her face.  He had no idea what the fuck he was looking at.  He gave her a thumbs up anyway.  

“We’re shopping.” he explained, a smile tugging at his lips when Ian huffed a laugh in his ear.

“Oh, yeah?  For what?” Ian’s jocular tone felt soothing to his own raw nerves.  He wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

“Shit for my place,” he replied, glancing down at the basket, “towels, pots.  I’m not even sure.  It seems like a lot of shit.” He was doing it again, falling easily into conversation.  He should probably stop.

He didn’t.

“I mean, how many fucking pots do you need?”

Ian chuckled again.  It was nervous but genuine “You’ll probably only ever use one.” He paused, his voice darkening, “Is it helping her?”

“Yeah.  She looks better as long as she keeps moving.  I’m just letting her buy whatever the hell she wants.”

“Yeah, well, you might want to be careful with that.  You know how she feels about cows.”

Mickey grimaced, thinking about Mandy’s kitchen decor.  “Fuck, man, she can buy whatever the hell she wants.  Doesn’t mean I have to keep it.”

He could hear Ian grinning through the phone.

“You’re a good brother, Mick.”

“Oh, don’t start this shit.”

“No, I mean it.  You’ve always tried to take care of her…”

“A good brother would’ve gutted Kenyatta.”  Shit.  The statement just flew out of him unbidden, but a dark swirl of self-loathing was suddenly roiling up within him.  Through the phone, he could hear Ian draw in a sharp breath.

“You tried to get her to ditch him…”

“A good brother would never have let Terry put his filthy fucking hands on her in the first place.”

“Mick!” 

Ian’s sharp tone jolted him out of his own head and he glanced around the aisle guiltily.  Thank fuck, Mandy had already turned the corner.  The rest of the row was empty.

“Sorry,” he said quietly.

“For what,” There was a hint of protectiveness in Ian’s voice. “Did you forget that I didn’t convince her to leave that asshole either?”

“You’re not…”

“And that I knew what Terry did?”

“Ian, that’s not…”

“What?” the redhead asked, flatly , “It’s not my fault?” He paused, letting the silence between them hang as Mickey grimaced.  “Yeah, Mick, it’s not.  It’s Terry’s fucking fault.”

“I shoulda…”

“It’s Terry’s  _ fucking fault!” _

Mickey closed his eyes, coming to a dead halt in the middle of the empty aisle.  His one hand squeezed the cart handle, the other gripped the phone so tight he could hear the squeak of the rubber casing against his fingers.  His eyes were burning again and , fuck,  _ fuck,  _ he wasn’t going to cry.  He wasn’t!  Mandy didn’t need to see that now.  It would get her all screwed up again. 

He could hear Ian on the other end of the line, breathing evenly.

“Mick?” he asked quietly.

Mickey gritted his teeth together and squeezed his eyes tight.  He sucked in another huge breath and let it leak out of him slowly.

“Mick?” The voice was louder this time, hints of distress coming through.

“Just give me a second,” he demanded, his voice only a harsh whisper.

“Alright, alright,” Ian replied immediately, his voice now calm and even, “Just breath and take your time.”

“Don’t try to fucking head shrink me, Gallagher.”

“I’m not trying to.  Mick, I’m sorry, okay?  I’m not trying to fucking push you or get in your space or shit,” Mickey could hear the redhead let out a quiet, frustrated groan, “but I can’t just sit and let you trash yourself for shit that isn’t on you, okay.  I can’t.”

“What the fuck do you know about it?”

Ian sighed, sounding tired himself now.  Mickey felt a twinge of guilt.  His feelings towards the other man were conflicted as fuck, but Ian had just called to check on Mands.  He didn’t deserve this shit right now.

“I know everything about it, Mick.  Do you know how much time I’ve spent trying not to blame myself for this shit?  But fuck it.  Terry can keep his own sins.  I’ve got enough of my own to answer for.” He exhaled, long and whispery. “Besides, I was there.  I know how hard you’ve tried to protect Mandy.  Or did you suddenly forget how we met?”

A tiny, huffing laugh escaped Mickey despite himself as he thought about the three days he and his brothers had spent chasing the evasive redhead through the neighborhood.  The laughter died quick though.  Iggy had gotten out of juvie that day.  They’d had a party for him that weekend but Jamie and Joey got locked up only two weeks later.  There hadn’t been a single day since that they’d all been free.

“I shoulda done a better job.” Fuck.  He could hear his voice shrinking on him again.  It pissed him off but he still couldn’t muster his old, reliable rage.  “Even she knows that.”

“Mick,” Now it was Ian who sounded a little pissed.  “Mandy does not know that.  What Mandy knows is that you gave up the life you were building for yourself and came back here to protect her.  She feels guilty as shit about it, too.”

Mickey winced. “She shouldn’t…”

“Nope, she shouldn’t.  You’re right.  Cause that shit is on Terry, too.  Okay?   _ That’s _ on Terry, too.”  Ian’s breath echoed through the phone.  “Don’t take his shit on you, Mick, please.  Don’t give him any more of a hold over you.  I can’t...I’m not asking you to worry about me or anything, but just, that...I can’t handle him having that hold over you.  Don’t let him drag you back under.”

They both fell silent for a minute.  There was a pleading note in Ian’s voices that tugged at his heart and made him want to listen.  Mickey glanced around him. He was still standing alone with the cart but he could hear Mandy rattling things around about two aisles over.  Ian’s breath was evening off in his ear again.  He felt tired, but fuck it.  He wasn’t going to go lie down.  He was staying on his own damn feet today.

“Mandy said the same thing.”

“What?” Ian’s voice was thick.  

“That it was Terry’s fault.  She told me that I couldn’t blame myself for shit he did.”

“You gonna listen?”

“I’m trying.”

“Okay.” Ian’s silence felt heavy on the other end of the line. “Look, I wasn’t trying to bother you…”

“Did Lip get off okay today?” Mickey spit out the question without even thinking.  It was an honest question.  He was sure Terry’s lawyer would have plenty of taunting ready for the elder Gallagher brother.  He’d be lying, though, if he didn’t admit that he also wanted to keep Ian on the phone.  

Ian was quiet for a moment.  “I guess.  Sierra went with him.”

“He gonna be okay?”

“I don’t know.” Ian’s voice was quieter now, heavier.  “He will be, but this just dragged up so much shit.  Stuff we just accepted as normal for so long.  I mean, you know.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, “But maybe that works out for us.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the jury isn’t going to think it’s normal, right?  The way we see it now, all fucked up.  That’s how they’re gonna see it.  Then they’ll lock his ass up.”

Ian sighed, “I hope.”

“Yeah.”

The silence hung between them again.

“You read anything good lately?”

Mickey’s lips twitched.  Ian didn’t seem to want to hang up either.  He grabbed the handle of the cart and started pushing it forward.

“Mandy had some old book from school that I picked up.   _ The Chosen. _ ”

“It any good?”

“Yeah, man.  It’s about these kids dealing with their dads’ bullshit expectations.”

“So it resonates.”

“Yeah.  I mean, it’s in the 1940s and they’re Jewish, but…”

“Terry would shit himself.”

Mickey grinned.  “Well, maybe that’s what I need to do.  Convert.  If I was Jewish  _ and _ gay, maybe that would be enough to finally kill the Nazi fucker.”

Ian huffed a small laugh into his ear. “We should be so lucky.”

“Yeah.”

The pause stretched between them.

It was Ian who finally broke it, reluctance clear in his voice. “Mick, I need to get ready for my shift.  But Mands is good?”

“Yeah, she’s okay.” He glanced around the corner.  “She’s buying me lamps now.”

“Good,” came the light reply, “and you’re okay?”

Mickey groaned.  “I’m fucking fine, Gallagher.”

“Alright, alright.  Okay, then, I’ll...I’ll talk to you soon.”

Mickey didn’t deny it.  

*************************************************************************************

**August 6, 2019**

Ian stepped out of Sierra and Lucas’s little apartment, trapping Lip inside with the air conditioning as he closed the door.  The hallway felt hot and sticky and he made his way out to the sidewalk as quickly as he could. 

He didn’t feel so great about going.  Sierra was working and Lucas was playing at Neil and Deb’s.  Ian wasn’t keen on leaving Lip alone to potentially stew about his testimony.  It had been rough and it wasn’t over. He’d be back on the stand first thing Monday morning.

But he did leave, because Lip said he was alright.  He said he had projects to work on and that he needed the peace and quiet of Sierra’s place to focus.  He said he had Brad’s number and would call him immediately if he experienced any temptations.  He said Ian could trust him.

They were both working on the trust thing.  They were learning how to expect the best instead of the worst.  Still, Ian found himself glancing back over his shoulder apprehensively as he walked up the street.  Trust was tough.  He and Lip had both done plenty to damage it over the years.  But they were both doing better now and they tried hard to respect that about each other.

Reaching into his pocket, Ian pulled out his phone to check for messages.  None.  He closed his eyes against the twinge of irrational disappointment and let out a breath.  

He and Lip weren’t the only ones with deep running trust issues.

The streets were crowded, exhaust and car horns filling the air.  The heat just wouldn’t let up this summer.  He headed up the street, weaving his way through the crowded sidewalks.  He’d promised to meet Trevor at the center and he was already running a little late.  He hustled through the familiar streets, ignoring the sweat that was breaking out on his forehead.  It was Saturday.  There was a good chance Mickey would be at the center, putting in some of the service hours attached to his early release.  

Ian’s gate speeded up at that realization, nervous energy coursing through him.  He hadn’t actually seen Mickey since the day of the move, electing to get Mandy to deliver the food he made him.  The recipe had been a little different this time and he hoped the other man had liked it.  Ian snorted to himself as he walked.  He should’ve asked Mickey yesterday.  

Or maybe not.  They’d talked about things that mattered a hell of a lot more than chicken.  The last thing Ian wanted was to get Mickey upset but the stuff he’d said yesterday needed to be said.  This shit wasn’t Mickey’s fault and he shouldn’t be blaming himself for it.  Mickey had spent years of his life tearing himself apart over things that should be laid at Terry Milkovich’s feet.  Ian couldn’t just stand by and watch it anymore.

And that was the crux of Ian’s problems.  He didn’t want to stand by and watch.  He had so many things he wanted to say to Mickey, so many things he wanted to made amends for, but he couldn’t figure out how to do it.  He had promised Mickey that he’d leave him alone and he was trying really hard to keep his word, but it was becoming more and more unbearable to know that Mickey was here, in Chicago, and that he was hurting.  Ian wanted to help him, to build him up and take care of him like Mickey had always done for him.

But that kind of help took trust. Ian had rejected Mickey’s help once, his disease warping the world around him until all of Mickey’s honest intentions seemed like lies.  Ian doubted he even fully understood how badly he had hurt Mickey  They’d had trust once.  He’d ripped it apart.  And now Mickey wouldn’t let him close enough to help him.  

Ian darted across a busy intersection as the light switched over and the cars lurched forward.  Everyone was always in such a fucking rush.  He glanced at the people around him as he walked, wondering for a moment about the different lives they led.  Did they have real problems?  He’d honestly like to know.  Did everyone’s world descend into chaos with some degree of regularity or were there really people out there who just sailed through life without a care, who’s families were stable and who’s minds were always sound.  Did other people treasure the loves of their lives or did they stomp their hearts to pieces?

He stopped dead for a second, staring up the street, looking at the hundreds of people around him.  He needed to stop this shit.  He’d fucked up.  Impressively.  The question was what he was going to do about it.  He could wallow in it forever, reliving every second of the last seven years, obsessively metting out blame and responsibility for each nuance, but what would be the purpose in that?  The answer would still be the same.  He’d fucked up.  There might have been other factors in play, other things he couldn’t control, but so what?  He needed to own his sins, too.

So what then?  Did he just walk away?  Mickey had told him to and he’d tried to abide by that but that had been weeks ago.  What about now?  His thoughts returned to his heated exchanges with Mandy over the course of the past three months.  She hadn’t held much back.  She didn’t want him anywhere near her brother if he wasn’t going to put Mickey first for once.  But she’d also reminded him that he knew Mickey’s mind better than most people.  So he had to look at the evidence.

Mickey had told him to stay away.  Ian couldn’t blame him.  But Mickey hadn’t actually pushed him away.  He hadn’t sought him out either, but every time an opportunity arose for them to talk, they had gravitated naturally together.  

A harried pedestrian bumped his shoulder.  Shit, he was going to be late.  Stepping back into the swell of people on the sidewalk, Ian headed up the street again.  Okay, Mandy was right.  He knew Mickey and he definitely knew what Mickey looked like when he was afraid.  He had every right to be afraid and Ian owed it to him to fix that.  Even if they were never together again, he owed it to Mickey to make amends.  But he couldn’t try to force it.

He could only offer.  

The center had huge fans blowing in the corners of the main room, wafting warm air over the lethargic teens who lay sprawled all over the furniture, motionless in defense against the heat.  Ian bypassed them and headed into Trevor’s office, where the chestnut haired man was stuck on the phone as per the norm.  

Ian leaned against the counter.  The only sounds were an occasional word into the phone from Trevor and the whirring of the giant fans.  He strained his ears, concentrating, listening for the sound of a familiar voice.  

A knocking sound startled him and he looked toward the desk.  The chestnut haired man was still on the phone but he was wrapping his knuckles against his wooden top, a knowing look on his face.  He gave a slight inclination with his chin, gesturing down the hallway that led to the dorms.  With a grateful smile, Ian headed off.  

The hallway was even hotter, the air still and oppressive.  He continued past several empty rooms, their bunked beds empty and neatly made up.  No Mickey, but if he was smart, he was doing some stuff in the basement today, where there was a chance of some cool air.  Ian headed for the back stairs, trying and failing to compose some kind of conversation starter.  No, no, fuck it.  He wasn’t going to try so hard.  It would come off as fucking fake.  He was just going to go down there and say “hey”.

The commotion, when it started, was mostly comprised of muffled voices and the sound of moving bodies.  Ian paused for a second as he approached the stairs.  The back door of the center was down one flight and he’d have to walk past the little group to get to the basement steps.  He had a bad feeling about what he was seeing.  The one girl in the group was tiny.  He’d seen her around here before.  She was speaking in a hushed voice to one of the guys while another held the door propped open.  Ian could see two other men outside through the glass plated entryway.  

The girl moved suddenly, pushing away from the man and bolting for the stairs.  They were on her in a second, two of them pulling her back by her arms, lifting her off her feet as one of the other guys held the door out of their way.  The girl went nuts, kicking and screaming like her life depended on it, and Ian realized with horror that it probably did.  His momentary paralysis broke.

“Hey!”

He raced forward, screaming for help over his shoulder before leaping down the stairs.  The girl had gotten an arm free and was clinging desperately to the door frame, driving her heels at her assailants.  At least she knew how to fight, but even in his fury, Ian could still tell they probably weren’t going to win this.  He went straight for the guy the girl had been speaking with, tearing him off of her tiny frame and flinging him into the dirt.  He turned around but a hard fist caught him in the jaw and sent him flailing onto the ground himself.  

The door to the center had swung shut as two of the assholes finally succeeded in dragging the girl off the door.  She was still fighting like hell but one of them draw a huge hand back and buried it in her stomach, doubling her over.  Her mouth opened in pain but all that came out was a breathless groan.  

“Not in the face,” the one yelled, and Ian realized that this was the fucker who’d punched him.  His vision turned red.  Reaching over, he landed another solid punch to the head of the bastard that lay sprawled next to him for good measure and leaped at the guy, taking him down in a tackle.  He straddled him, pinning him down and pummeling the shit out of him, but now the girl was losing her fight and the other two men were getting her closer and closer to a black SUV that was parked on the curb.  

Fuck.

His jaw exploded again.  The guy under him had landed a shot while he’d tried to spot the girl. He felt himself tip sideways but he caught himself and drew his arm back to deliver another blow.  From the corner of his eye, he could see the other bastard struggling to his feet.  Shit!  Even if he could take these two out, it wouldn’t do the girl much good.

He heard the crash behind him, but by the time he spun around, the door frame was already empty.  The blue shirted, black-haired blur was cold-cocking bastard number one, who collapsed back into the dirt and lay still.  Ian and his assailant both stared, shocked into inaction, as Mickey lit across the little yard and tackled one of the men holding the girl, driving him back hard into the side of the car.  He gave the man no chance to recover, kicking and punching him until he fell to the ground, then stomping him repeatedly until the guy lay still.  

Ian’s opponent gave a sudden shove, rolling and gaining his feet.  Ian scrambled up too, advancing on the guy as Mickey and the girl both went after the last asshole.  Ian wasted no time, laying into his adversary’s sensitive belly until the man collapsed back to his knees and made no effort to regain his footing.  Looking up, he saw the fourth man down by the wheel of the SUV, blood pouring down his face.  The girl was behind Mickey now, clinging to his back and sobbing, but Mickey barely seemed to notice.  The look on his face was terrifying, cold, deadly, and fixed.  Ian couldn’t tear his eyes away.  He knew that face.  It belonged to the shit-talking southside bad-ass he’d fallen for years ago.

Ian heard the echo of sirens a second before the back door crashed open a second time.  Glancing behind him, he saw Trevor running out, a baseball bat in his hands.

The girl took off, running at Trevor and flinging her arms around him, sobbing uncontrollably.  Mickey followed, grabbing the bat from Trevor’s hands and holding it at the ready as he took a look around the center’s little backyard.  The guy on his knees was making an effort to gain his footing but Mickey walked over and stuck the business end of the bat right in his face.

“Sit the fuck down and don’t fucking move or I will crack you like a fucking egg!” he spit out in a terrifyingly calm voice.  The guy stumbled and fell on his ass in the dirt, keeping his eyes fixed on the bat.

No one attempted to move again.

It took more than an hour for the cops to take down statements and haul the four assholes away in cuffs.  Ian spoke with one of the officers in a dorm room, recounting his story three times before they were satisfied they had it all.  His jaw was throbbing and his stomach was gnawing away at him by the time he made it to Trevor’s office.  The chestnut haired man was leaning back in his chair, his eyes closed.  He looked exhausted.

“Hey,” Ian said quietly, “What happened to, um…?”

“Trish?” Trevor opened his eyes and offered him a wan smile, “The cops are gonna drop her at another shelter.  They don’t want her location known right now.”  He leaned forward and rubbed at his temples.

“What the fuck was that?”

Trevor snorted.  “That was her brother,” he answered in a tense voice. “Apparently, he and his little gang have accrued some pretty steep drug debts so he agreed to trade Trish to clear them.”

A wave of nausea washed over Ian. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Nope.”  Trevor met his eyes and held them.  “You saved her life, Ian, you and Mickey.  I don’t need to tell you what probably would’ve happened if they got her in that car.”  Trevor stood up, tipping his chin towards the front door.  “Make sure that he knows that, okay, that he saved her fucking life.”

Turning around, Ian followed Trevor’s gaze towards the front door.  “I’ll text you later,” he called as he barrelled out of the center.

He caught sight of Mickey a block and half up the road.  Ignoring the heat, he sprinted after him.

“Mick!”

The other man froze, turning slowly.

“The fuck you need, Gallagher?”

Ian pulled up in front of him.  “You alright?”

“I’m fucking fine,” he snapped, staring hard at the ground in front of him.  “It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big...fuck, Mick, I don’t think she feels that way.” Ian tried to catch his gaze, “You know what they would’ve done…”

“Yeah, I fucking know, man, or did you forget that I used to pimp girls out, too?” Mickey glanced up, shooting Ian a pointed look as he bit at his lip angrily.  “Did you forget that?”

Ian stared at him incredulously.  “You’ve got to be kidding me.  You literally got into that so you could pay them better wages.  I’m not saying it was perfect but fuck, you want to compare that to sexual slavery?  Cause that’s what they were gonna do, okay, just give her to some dealer to clear a debt.  I mean, fuck…” 

Mickey looked unmoved.  “Don’t try to make me out to be a hero, Ian.” he said, his voice firm but quiet, “You’ve always known what the hell I was. You wanted that once, but shit changed.”

“It didn’t…”

“It did. And you were pretty fucking clear about that.”

Ian closed his eyes.  He wanted so badly to tell Mickey that what he was saying wasn’t true, but somehow he held his tongue.  Mickey needed to say this shit to him.  And he deserved to hear it.

“I don’t even fucking know what you’re doing right now,” the brunette went on, pacing in a slight circle and scrubbing a hand through his hair.  “You walk around now, acting like you aren’t sure what you want.  Well, you were pretty fucking clear before.  You wanted your nice, new, ordered life.  And you could’ve fucking had it.  I promised I’d never bother you again.”

“That’s not what I fucking want!”  Ian hurled the words at him, taking a step forward, but Mickey backed away immediately.

“No, Ian!” he demanded, holding a hand up.  When Ian took another step, Mickey planted a palm against his chest and pushed back. “No!” His voice shook ever so slightly and strained cracks started to form around the edges of the bad-ass veneer.  It cleared Ian’s head immediately.  He took a step back.  

“That’s not want I want,” he said miserably, closing his burning eyes.

“You have no  _ idea _ what you want!” Mickey exploded, pressing the heels of his hands against his temples in frustration, “You never fucking know what you want!  You just go back forth in your own head, unable to make up your fucking mind, while other people have to stand there holding their dicks and hoping!  You’re fucking dangerous  and I don’t know if I can play around with that anymore.”

Ian swallowed hard.  “Mick…”

No, okay.  No!” Mickey paused, breathing hard, his eyes squeezed shut.  Ian could feel panicked sweat beading on his forehead and he itched to jump forward, to hug the other man close, but he couldn’t.

It wasn’t wanted.

“What is you expect me to do, huh?” the brunette spit at him, his blue eyes finally awash with tears, “Huh! Like I’m supposed to trust you, take a risk on you again?  How the fuck would I ever be able to do that?” He wiped furiously at his eyes, but fresh tears were already welling as he met Ian’s gaze again. 

“You once told me we couldn’t be together cause there was too much wrong with you.” He took a step forward, anger blending with the misery, and Ian fought the instinct to move back, “And then, when we’re at the border, we can’t be together cause there’s too much wrong with me.  Cause that’s not your thing anymore.  You remember that, too?”

He nodded, miserable.  

“I remember.”

“So why the fuck are you even standing here!?  You only want this shit when it’s perfect and I got news for you, bitch.  Nothing’s ever perfect.  Everybody’s fucking life always has too much going wrong!  I get that.  You don’t!”

“I do…”

“You don’t!” he walked around in a circle again, his palms back on his brow.  Ian’s stomach was churning.  He felt lightheaded, as if he was crashing from the final stages of mania.  He couldn’t think of what to do.  And there was nothing he could say.

Mickey was quieting, the angry flush of skin dissipating.  He looked tired again.  He looked sad.  

It made Ian want to hold him close or punch a wall, but he did neither.  He’d lost the right to a long time ago.

“I’ll stay away.” he heard himself say, “I was trying to before, I really was, but this time I’ll do better.”

Mickey said nothing but his head was shaking slightly.  “Yeah, fine,” He spit out quietly.

“Jesus Christ, Mick!” The words roared out of him and he was moving forward again before he even realized it. “You know what, I’m not the one who doesn’t know what the fuck he wants.  I’m trying to do right by you here.  I don’t want to stay away but I will for you. But you can’t get pissed at me for it!”

“I’m not!”

“You are!”

“Oh, fuck you Gallagher.  Don’t act like you know me.”

A bitter laugh tore from his throat, even as fresh tears sprung up in the corners of his eyes.  He took a deep breath, followed by another, fixing his gaze on Mickey’s feet.  

“I do know you,” he stated calmly, “I know you really well…”

“Oh fuck you.” Mickey spat, turning his back on him.

“...which is why,” he stepped toward the brunette, stopping close behind him, watching the rise and fall of his shaking shoulders.  He forced his voice to a quiet calm. “Which is why I know you’re torn up here.  You don’t want to let me get close because I hurt you real bad.  But you also don’t know how to just walk away from me.  Because I’m under your skin…”

“Don’t.” The other man’s voice was quiet but rage brimmed right below the surface.  “Don’t you pull that shit on me.  Don’t you turn my own words on me.  I said shit like that to you when I trusted you.”

“I know,” He said quietly, taking a slight step closer. “I know and I’m not trying to use it against you.  I’m not trying to fuck with you here.”  He let a long breath out, his eyes catching the way it ruffled the ends of Mickey’s hair.  God, he was fucked.  “Mick, I just want you to know that I get it.  I do know you and because of that I can guess what you’re feeling.  But I’ve always known you really well and that still didn’t stop me from causing you a shit ton of pain in the past.  I know you but that doesn’t mean shit when it comes to earning your trust.  I mean, fuck,” he muttered, turning to the side, “I used it against you.”

“Yeah, you did.”

“I know.”

They stood there quietly, breathing slowly.  Ian’s head was swimming and his eyes were blurry.  He could practically feel Mickey’s pain wafting off of him only inches away but he no longer trusted himself to help.  

After all, he was the source of all the pain.  

His head jerked up when Mickey moved suddenly, wiping furiously at his face again.  The brunette glanced back up the sidewalk, where the last two cop cars were pulling away from the center.  He looked tired again, but there was something, buried under the surface, that reminded Ian of that old fire.  Fuck, he didn’t want it to go out again.

“Tell me what to do?” he said, the pleading coming through in his voice.  “Whatever it is, I’ll do it.”

Mickey snorted, “Even if it isn’t what you want?”

“What I want is you to be okay.  To be happy.” The tears finally spilled down his cheeks, soaking his neck as he held his arms our plaintively, “So just tell me.”

“I don’t know.”

“What?” the word left him like a punch to the stomach.

“I don’t.” Mickey swiveled towards him slowly but kept his gaze fixed downward.  “I can’t...I’m so afraid of taking a risk on you again.”

“Mick…”

“No,” he held up his hand again and this time Ian stopped short.  “Just, no.  We can’t do this shit right now.  Just, I don’t know...fuck...I need you to give me some more time, okay.” he looked up, “Okay?”

“Okay.”

The brunette nodded slowly, looking back down the street. “Alright,” he muttered quietly, “I gotta head home.  I got shit to do.”

He let his eyes drift towards Ian’s again.  There was an ocean of emotions in them that Ian couldn’t even begin to decipher, but he wasn’t willing to look away.  If Mickey wanted to drown him in them, he’d let him.

“Alright.” The gaze broke as Mickey turned and headed up the road.  He didn’t look back.  He disappeared around a corner about three blocks down.

Ian watched him the whole way.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Up: Iggy makes a stand and Ian takes the stand.


	13. Dream the Same Thing Every Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian's on the stand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay in posting. I was on vacay and thought I'd have a lot of time to write. I didn't.
> 
> I also couldn't post this until I was satisfied with the courtroom scene. 
> 
> Ultimately, this whole chapter kind of took off on it's own. A lot happened that I didn't plan for, but I'm actually really pleased with how it came out. Hope everyone enjoys it.

**August 8, 2019**

The cop at the intake desk shot Ian an annoyed glare as he paced before the glass front of the precinct.  He ignored her aggravation, holding his phone up to his ear as the ringing began.   _ C’mon, c’mon _ , he thought over and over again,  _ Pick up the fucking phone _ .

The voicemail clicked on.  “It’s Mickey.  Do your thing.”

_ Fuck! _

He ended the call.  No sense leaving another message.  Instead, he pecked out a text with shaking fingers.

_ Mick CALL ME!  It’s about Iggy. _

Ian slid his phone into his pocket and leaned against the wall, staring out at the street in front of him.  He’d shot a text to Gracy and Peterson but they were probably still in the meeting with that expert witness who was set to start testifying tomorrow.  Who knew when they’d be done.  So who did that leave?  Mandy? Not fucking likely.  She was just starting to pull herself together again.  He couldn’t risk fucking that up.  Mickey’d kill him.  Hell,  _ Iggy’d  _ kill him.  So, what the fuck could he…

His phone buzzed in his pocket.  He yanked it out and looked at the screen.

“Thank fuck,” he said out loud and hit answer.

“Mick?”

“What the hell, Ian?” the brunette demanded into the phone, “You called like eight times.  Is something up?”

“Did you get my text?”

“What? No, I just saw you...hang on.”

“No, Mick…,” but Mickey’s breathing had already cut out as he pulled the phone away from his mouth.  Ian could hear the curses as Mickey read the words.

“What’s wrong with Iggy?”

Ian took a breath.  Mickey sounded crazy and that wouldn’t help anything.  “Mick, he’s okay.  I need you to calm down.”

“Ian!”

“Micky, c’mon!” Ian cut him off.  He needed Mickey to keep his head on straight. “Listen to me, okay.  He isn’t hurt but he needs some help so you need to calm the fuck down and let me explain, okay?  Okay!” He asked again when he got no response.  He could hear Mickey breathing through the line, fighting for control.

“Talk,” the other man spit at him, but his voice was calmer.

“I was at the courthouse, waiting for Lip to get done.  There’s that alley along the side where everyone goes to smoke so I went down there quick.  You can see the back door of the courthouse and some of the guards were bringing Terry out.”

Mickey drew in a harsh breath and Ian paused at the sound.  “Did he see you?” he demanded, a little hint of panic entering his voice.

“He did,” Ian answered, hurrying his word now, “but that isn’t the big problem, okay.  We saw each other and I started to back away so  I didn’t really see what happened but suddenly Iggy was just there.  He came charging at Terry, cursing him out, calling him a pervert.”

“Ian, Jesus, that area’s off limits.  Did he…”

“He got tased, Mick.  The guard told him to freeze and he didn’t fucking listen and they tased the shit out of him, but that was it.  I mean, he probably hurts like hell right now, but he should be fine,” Ian paused and took a breath, “but they did arrest him.”

There was momentary silence on the other end of the phone before Mickey muttered in a quietly murderous voice, “You call that fucking fine?  I’d hate to see what your definition of fucked up is.  Christ.”

Ian sighed. “Mick, I’m just saying a person can recover pretty easily from a taser.  It’s a hell of a lot better than the alternative.”

Mickey didn’t sound mollified at all. “Where the fuck did they take him?”

“We’re at the precinct in Homan Square.”

“You there?”  There was genuine surprise in Mickey’s voice.  

“Yes,” He replied, with a steel-like undertone.  “I’m staying right here.”

There was a moment of heavy silence on the line before Mickey exhaled.  

“Fine, fuck.  I’ll be right there.”

Ian was back inside, sitting in one of the hard plastic row chairs that lined the precinct’s front room when Mickey strode through the glass doors.   The brunette was sweaty and dirt-streaked, obviously fresh from his job, and his wild eyes scanned the periphery of the small room.  Ian was on his feet and walking towards him immediately, realization dawning on him.  Mickey was at a loss.  There was a default setting for the way a Milkovich entered a police precinct.

But that wasn’t who Mickey was anymore.  

Ian stepped into Mickey’s view, giving the brunette something on which to focus his panicked gaze.  He caught a quick flash of relief in the blue eyes though, and he latched on to that as the brunette opened his mouth.

“Get the fuck out of my way, Ian.”

Ian stood his ground but kept his voice low.  “Mick, you don’t want to make this worse.”

There was fire in the look Mickey shot him.  It wasn’t quite as bright and wild as it had once been, but it was there and Ian counted that as a win, even as he reached out a hand intended to calm the other man.  Mickey’s mouth was opened, trying and failing to form the right words. 

“Mick,” Ian spoke softly, keeping the hand on Mickey’s shoulder gentle and his voice calm, “you gotta keep it together, okay?  Think about Mands and Yev.”

Beneath his palm, Ian could feel Mickey’s shoulder tense.  His fierce blue gaze was already fading, drowning in helpless, frustrated tears as he stared at the floor.  “Ian,” he whispered furiously, his voice a terrible blend of rage and despair, “the cops have my fucking brother locked up!”

“I know,” Ian interjected quickly, “I know.  And we need to get him out so we need to stay calm.”

“Stay calm?” Mickey’s whisper was loud and livid, “Fuck, do you even... how the fuck are we even going to afford bail?  Shit!”

He turned back towards the door, pulling his phone out.

Ian took a step behind him. “Don’t text Mandy!”

“I’m not!” Mickey whispered angrily over his shoulder, “I’m not fucking stupid.  It’s Peterson.”

Ian calmed. “Okay, okay, good.  I texted him too but they’re in a meeting…”

“I fucking know that, Ian.  Fuck, do you think you’re the only one paying attention?”

He was pacing in circles now, his voice rising again, and the cop at the intake desk was starting to shoot them dirty looks.  Ian glanced back at her and offered an unreturned smile, then turned back towards Mickey.  The brunette was leaning hard against the length of the door handle, his forehead pressed against the glass.  

Ian came up beside him, gauging his reaction carefully.  Mickey didn’t tense or pull away, so he took a chance and leaned back against the window beside the other man.  Mickey’s knuckles were white with the strain of holding himself together, clinging to the door handle like a lifeline.  The sight sent a sharp stab of pain through Ian’s chest.  He wanted to reach out and peel Mickey’s hands off the door.  He wanted to link their fingers together and tell Mickey he could hold onto him. He didn’t, though.  He had no idea how the brunette would react. Instead, he placed a hand beside Mickey’s, barely touching, and offered what comfort he could.  

“Listen, I’m not trying to fucking patronize you,” He said, keeping his voice calm, “I’m just saying that this is probably going to be okay.  Honestly, I think they’ll just let him go…”

“Oh, Jesus fucking Christ, Ian,” Mickey railed, his sudden anger almost immediately choked out by miserable tears.  He slammed his hands down against the door handle and stalked out of the precinct, wiping furiously at his eyes as he hurried down the stairs.  

Ian froze for a moment, staring after him, at a loss for what to do.   _ Go after him, you fucking idiot,  _ a voice screamed in his head.  Pushing off the glass, he shoved the door open and bounded out into the ridiculous heat.  He’d promised himself he’d stop over-thinking this shit and listen to his gut.  There was no better time than now.  

Mickey hooked into the alley beside the red brick building and leaned against the wall, resting his head between his tightly fisted hands.  Ian stopped, hovering between the alley and the sidewalk, not wanting to push Mickey too fast.  The brunette was a ball of volatility and Ian knew from experience how spectacularly it could it explode.  He waited, inching forward cautiously as Mickey’s breathing slowed. 

“You know,” the shorter man spit in a dangerously calm voice, “A few years ago, I asked you what fucking world you lived in. Remember, that day Frank caught us fucking in the cooler?” Ian nodded carefully but Mickey barely noticed.  “I asked you what world you lived in because I realized you don’t fucking live in this one.  I mean, I live here, Mandy does, Iggy _ sure _ as fuck does.  Even your brother does.  But you, man…” 

His voice drifted off for a second as he rubbed nervously at his nose, his blue eyes wild in his otherwise calm face. 

“You know what, I fucking take it back.  The problem is that you  _ do _ live here.  You live here with the rest of us.  You just don’t fucking realize it.  You don’t fucking get it.” He turned suddenly, stalking towards Ian, grabbing handfuls of his uniform shirt and shaking him.  “What the fuck are the rest of us supposed to do with you?” he continued, his blue eyes staring up into Ian’s face, his voice heavy with panic and rage, “I mean, fuck, Gallagher, are you ever going to get it?  Are you ever going to figure this the fuck out?”

He was full on yelling now, shoving at Ian’s chest, but beneath his protective layer of Milkovich style aggression, Ian could see the bone deep exhaustion.  He didn’t stop to think about his actions, to think about the likelihood of Mickey actually taking a swing at him.  He just threw his arms around the smaller man, yanking him into a bear hug and holding fast.

At first, Mickey fought.  He shoved more furiously against Ian’s chest, but his efforts faltered quickly.  Ian could see it in his face and read it in the defeated set of his shoulders.  Mickey Milkovich, a brawler to his core, was running out of fight.  It scared the shit out of Ian, made his blood literally run cold and he pulled Mickey in tighter and sought out warmth in the crook of his neck.  Mickey uttered a small sound that sounded like a cross between a sigh and a hitching sob as the last of the rancour ran out of him.  He let himself be cradled against Ian’s chest.

Ian exhaled deeply, letting the breath carry away the weight of the last few weeks along with the exertion of the struggle in the alley.  He’d promised himself he wouldn’t go after Mickey anymore, that he’d let the other man have the space he needed to rebuild a life, but in this moment nothing could have persuaded him to let Mickey go.  The brunette was leaning into him gently, letting him bear his weight and for one crazy second, Ian let himself entertain the thought of simply scooping Mickey right off his feet and carrying him away from all of this insanity.  He choked down the laugh that tried to force its way out of his throat.  

That would get Mickey pitching a fit again in a hurry.  Didn’t matter how tired he was.

Mickey was stiffening a little in his arms.  Ian didn’t strengthen his hold but he didn’t loosen it either, letting the brunette squirm sluggishly.

“They’re gonna let Iggy go,” he whispered against Mickey’s hair.  “I’m not saying that because I’m naive.  It’s the only thing that makes sense in this situation.  They won’t book a Milkovich kid for trying to go after Terry, not with the shit he’s being prosecuted for.  I mean, how the fuck would that look?”

Mickey said nothing but he did relax, melting back against Ian’s chest and letting out his own strained breath.  

Ian sighed quietly in relief, letting himself inhale and indulge in Mickey’s scent for one moment.  He rubbed gentle, concentric circles against the shorter man’s back and continued, “You’re wrong about me not getting it.  I fucking get it.  When the guards were grabbing Iggy, Terry looked up and saw me.  He looked right at me.  I don’t believe the world always ends in fucking rainbows, Mick.  You know that.  What I do believe is that Terry wants my ass dead.  He’d kill me with his bare hands if he got the chance.” He pulled them apart for a moment, gripping Mickey’s upper arms. “So I promise you, I get how high the stakes are.  I have absolutely no misconceptions.”

Mickey’s blue eyes, still shiny with tears he’d deny existed, met his gaze. “That fuck ain’t touching any of us ever again.  He actually gets off and his ass will be dead and buried the very first night.”

Ian nodded.  “Yeah, I know that, too.”

He gave a careful tug, pulling Mickey close again.  Before the brunette could think about it too hard, he loosened the hold and looked towards the end of the alley.

“We should check on the Iggy thing.  But no flipping out on cops, right?”  He glanced down at Mickey who bit at his lip a little but nodded.  They pulled apart, calmly, comfortably, and headed back inside.  

It was over an hour later that Peterson finally arrived, striding into the precinct with an air of authority.  Mickey and Ian both moved to stand up out of the hard plastic chairs but the lawyer waived them down with a subtle but firm gesture.  They collapsed back into their seats silently, nervously gripping at the chair arms.  A tense exchange was taking place at the intake desk, Peterson gesticulating wildly in front of the unimpressed desk cop.  Ian could feel the apprehensive shifts in Mickey’s breathing.  Glancing to the side, he suddenly realized that the length of their arms were pressed up against each other where they lay atop the chair rails.  Ian’s eyes flickered up to Mickey’s face, but the blue gaze was fixed immovably on the lawyer.  If Mickey was aware of their proximity, he made not attempt to pull away.  

The cop at the front desk finally waived Peterson wordlessly through a thick metal door.  He glanced back at them quickly as he headed deeper into the precinct, his lips stretched into an awkwardly comforting smile.  His eyes looked less sure, though, and Ian could feel the tension pooling beneath Mickey’s skin as the minutes ticked by, and he pressed the length of his arm more firmly against the other man’s, willing him to accept the comfort.

Mickey said nothing.  He kept his jaw set and his eyes rooted to the floor, but he pushed back ever so slightly.  The pressure increased each time the big hand on the wall clock passed made its way back to twelve.  

Ian’s heart was jack rabbiting in his chest, the beats so loud he was sure Mickey could hear them.  If Mickey noticed, he didn’t show it, but a sudden, sharp huff escaped his chest.  He tensed even more, shifting his gaze to the door Peterson had disappeared through as more and more of his breaths became deep and erratic.  Ian glanced at him carefully out of the corner of his eye.  Mickey looked pale and on the verge of panic as he stared into the precinct’s interior.  It twisted something sharp in Ian’s gut.  Mickey couldn’t panic now.  It wasn’t going to help their current situation, but more importantly, it would drive Mickey nuts if he did.  He’d feel weak and ashamed and he was just starting to get better.

Ian felt his hands moving.  He uttered a small prayer that this would work, that it would calm the brunette and not push him over the edge.  

Then he let his pinky curl gently over Mickey’s, linking their hands together.  

For a moment, Mickey went completely rigid and Ian almost pulled back, but then the other man’s finger curled back around his and the panicked tension on his face began to retreat.  Ian breathed out a sigh of relief and let the tip of his ring finger stroke lightly along Mickey’s hand.  He did nothing else but wait as the rest of the strain slowly bled out of the other man.  

Mickey’s eyes were still fixed on the door and his shoulders were still  hunched defensively.  Ian leaned back into his chair, letting his head rest against the wall.  He closed his eyes and tugged on the their linked fingers, gently but firmly.  A small, relieved smile pulled at his lips as he felt Mickey acquiesce, settling back against the chair beside him.  Ian said nothing, just let their fingers continue to slide gently together as the minutes passed by.  

The sudden screech of the interior door jarred them both out of their stupor.  Ian’s eyes flew open and his hand reflexively tightened around Mickey’s.  Glancing over, he saw the shorter man staring down at their intertwined fingers.  The brunette seemed torn and for a moment, Ian was sure he was going to rip his hand away.  Instead, blue eyes met his carefully for a moment, hesitant but grateful, and Mickey’s own hand tightened in response.  

Ian couldn’t control his heart, which leaped into his throat at the sensation, but he held it inside, refusing to push too hard as Mickey stood, drawing them both to their feet before he finally slid their hands apart.  

A terse Peterson was walking towards them with a furious but exhausted looking Iggy in tow.  

“He’s free to go.” Peterson stated in a heavy voice, glancing at his watch, “You might want to take him to the hospital.  Now, I have a witness to finish prepping,”  Turning, he fixed Iggy with a sharp glare, “Listen, I get it, but don’t pull this shit again.” Turning on his heel, he headed towards the precinct door.

“Wait,” Mickey called, “Does this mean…”

“Just fucking let it go, bro,” Iggy implored, fatigue evident in his voice.  Mickey turned back to face him and for a moment, Ian honestly wasn’t sure if they’d hug or throw fists.  

“Let’s go to the hospital.”

“Oh fuck that shit,” Iggy turned his own blue eyes on Ian, “Gallagher can check me out.” 

Mickey’s face scrunched and he ran frustrated fingers through his hair, but when his eyes opened again, he sought out Ian’s gaze. “Can you?  I mean,  take a look at him?”

Ian glanced at Iggy, giving his breathing and complexion a cursory glance.  “I can, but it won’t be official or anything.”

“Fuck official,” Iggy spit out, standing up and striding towards the door.  “Just make sure I’m not gonna die, okay.  But not in here.”  He pushed open the glass exit and headed down the stairs.

Mickey watched him leave, his fingers curling into fists.  “He wants me to let it fucking go.” he muttered, half to himself.  His voice was measured and careful, barely concealing the need to punch something.  

Ian stepped up beside him, laying a hand on his shoulder as they watched Iggy light up a cigarette on the sidewalk.  

“He’s out, Mick.  Just focus on that.”

Mickey snorted but leaned further into Ian’s touch.  “Are we ever gonna be anything but fuck-ups?” he asked blankly.

Ian stepped closer, letting his hand trail across Mickey’s chest and rest on his other shoulder.  “You’re the toughest fucking person I’ve ever known.  You’re smart as hell and you’ve always been driven.  And now you’ve got a real chance.  I don’t believe you’re gonna fuck it up.”

Mickey sighed, choking out the last bit of breath.  “I’m sick of being tough.”he whispered, tears brimming in his tone again.  His gaze was still fixed on the glass door but his hand crept up unbidden, wrapping itself around Ian’s wrist.  “I can’t do this shit forever.”  His voice trailed away and his eyes squeezed shut.  

Something in Ian’s core twisted sharply.  The vulnerability in those words was ripping at his heart.  

“Of course you can’t.  No one can and you’ve been doing it for way too long already.” Ian gave a small tug, drawing the brunette against his chest once again.  Mickey came readily this time, and Ian could feel the knot in his heart loosen.  “But it’s not gonna last forever, man.  You said it yourself.  One way or another, that fucker is gone.  You know it, I know it, Lip, Colin, Carl, they all know it.”  He glanced towards the door, “Iggy sure as hell knows it.  And once he’s gone, Mick, then you’ll finally be free.  Okay?”

Mickey nodded sluggishly, his eyes still closed and suddenly Ian couldn’t stand it anymore.  He pulled Mickey around to face him, grabbing onto both of the brunette’s shoulders and anchoring him in place.  “I get why you don’t believe that, okay, because how the fuck could you ever have imagined a future without that piece of shit looming over you?  But he will  _ not  _ be there anymore, do you fucking understand me?”

Ian could feel his fingers digging into Mickey’s shoulders but he couldn’t loosen his hold, couldn’t even begin to let go.  Blue eyes were staring up at him, glazed and panicked and just a little bit hopeful as warm hands came to rest on his forearms.  They were falling into each other’s gaze, losing themselves in each other the way they used to, and in that swirling, ethereal blue, Ian suddenly found the words he needed Mickey to understand.  

“You want to bury him for Yev, for Mandy and Svet, and that’s fine.  I’m one hundred percent on board with that.  But just so we’re perfectly fucking clear, I want to bury him for you.”

He heard the hitch in Mickey’s breath and felt the fingers on his arms tighten ever so slightly, but at that moment the precinct’s front door flew open and a group of furious looking people stomped in, demanding help.  Their gaze was broken as they watched the angry little mob scream at each other while the desk cop attempted to restore some order.  

“We should get out of here,” he said quietly.  He loosened his grip on Mickey’s shoulders slightly.  “It probably isn’t a good idea to plan Terry’s murder right in front of the cops.”

“Why?  They’d probably help if we asked nicely,” Mickey retorted dryly and Ian couldn’t contain the snort that escaped him.  He let his eyes settle on the blue gaze again, giving Mickey’s shoulders a squeeze before they both drew slowly back.  Glancing at the door, Ian spotted the glow of a cigarette against the growing darkness.  “Let me go take a look at your brother.”

*************************************************************************************

**August 11, 2019**

Ian knew what it meant to hate.  Over the course of his life, he’d had plenty of experience giving and receiving it.  He knew how it felt and what it took to maintain it.

Hate was exhausting and in Ian’s experience, it usually wasn’t worth the energy it took to cultivate it.  Sometimes, though, hate was the only option.  Sometimes, the feeling was so strong and so deserved that it took no energy at all.  As Ian stared down from the witness stand, he realized that his hatred for Terry Milkovich was practically self-sustaining.

Given the death glare that the bull-shaped old man was sending back his way, he’d say the feeling was pretty mutual.  

He glanced to the side, where Gracy was arguing in quietly furious tones in front of the judge while Terry’s pitbull lawyer stood by smirking.  The guy was every bit the motherfucker that he’d been warned about.  

He was getting used to sitting through sidebars while the lawyers wrangled with the judge.  He’d been warned about this, too.  Ted Shanley fought dirty and he’s spent the entire first day of Ian’s testimony objecting to any damn thing he could think of.  The guy didn’t back down easy either.  He was typically overruled, but he’d double down until the judge had no option but to pull the lawyers aside.  He’d been threatened with contempt on two separate occasions but that had barely done anything to contain his behavior.

“I don’t get it,” Ian had said to Peterson as they stood out in the hallway during the first recess, “He’s driving everyone in the courtroom crazy with that shit.  Shouldn’t he be trying to make himself, I don’t know, likeable or something?”

“It wouldn’t work,” Peterson had answered quickly, leaning back against the wall.  He looked pinched and tired and Ian had suddenly realized that the he and Gracy had been dealing with this shit for almost two weeks now.  “He knows there’s no way for him to make Terry look sympathetic to the jury.  His only strategy is to make all of you look as bad as possible.”

“But how does this help?”

“You guys have all been telling stories.  They’re true and they’re horrible but they’re still stories and stories matter to audiences, whether they’re juries or not.  They want to listen to them, to hear the beginning, middle and end.  When the story gets interrupted, it takes the audience time to get back into it.  Everytime he objects, the narrative is broken.  The jury is pulled out of the moment.  It makes it harder for them to see what actually happened, to form a picture of it in their heads.”

Ian had snorted.  “I doubt they’d want a picture.”

“That’s their job here.  And it’s Kate’s job to make sure they see it.  My job’s to help.  And whether we like it or not, Ian, it’s Shanley’s job to try to screw it up.  I told you, my friend, he’s a piece of shit but he’s a good lawyer.”

Ian had felt his stomach knot a bit at that declaration but Peterson was already pushing off the wall.  “Don’t worry,” he’d said, laying a hand on Ian’s shoulder for a brief moment, “Kate’s better.  Now come on.  We need to get back in.”

The marathon of objections had continued throughout the afternoon and into the evening.  It had been almost eight before Gracy and Peterson had finally finished briefing him for cross the next day and turned him over to Fiona.  They’d driven home in silence as Ian nursed a pounding headache.

“I’m going to bed,” he’d muttered as they entered the house.

“Okay,” she’d answered, not pushing despite her obvious concern.  He’d given her a tiny, grateful smile and headed to his room, barely undressing before he hit the bed.

He’d nearly been asleep when his phone buzzed beside his head.  Fumbling around, he’d finally located it in the sheets and read the text.

_ You good? _

Mickey.

Ian had sat up straight, the leap in his heart helping him to fight off his exhaustion as he fumbled at the screen.

_ I’m alright.  Lawyers a fuck though. _

_ I keep hearing that. _

Ian had smiled but it had morphed into a monstrous yawn.  He’d barely slept the night before and had worked a double before that.  As much as he wanted to talk, he needed his sleep.  

_ I gotta sleep man.  Can’t keep my eyes open. Slept like shit last night _

_ Yeah sleep _

_ I’ll text you tomorrow? _

_ Yeah please _

There’d been a short pause.

_ Keep calm and fuck him up tomorrow. _

Ian had smiled.

_ I will _

The smile had still been on his face when he drifted off to sleep.

Mickey couldn’t have known how essential that advice had proven to be.  Keep calm.  That was exactly what he needed to do but Shanley wasn’t fucking around.  He’d opened up his cross-examination by asking Ian, in a perfectly pleasant and professional voice, just how long he’d been a faggot. 

Gracy had objected immediately and the judge was now threatening Shanley with a formal censure and a night in prison the very next time he stepped out of line.  The big shouldered man was nodding his head in mock contrition as he walked back to his table.

Beneath the edge of the witness stand, Ian squeezed his hands into fists and let out a shallow, slow breath.  At the defense table, Terry and Shanley both looked amused.  Well, fuck that.  They thought they could rattle him so easy, like he hadn’t seen shit?  Like he hadn’t survived shit?   No, he was going to keep calm.

And rain down hell on both of them.  

“So, Mr. Gallagher,” the lawyer started, his voice low and bellicose, “We’ve heard a lot of stories from you, your brother and Ms. Milkovich.  But there’s a couple of details they all seem to be missing.  Maybe you could help me fill in the blanks?”

“Sure,” Ian clipped, holding the man’s gaze.

“Ms. Milkovich told you that Terry Milkovich fathered her child, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“I see,” Shanley came around the table, pacing with a look of mock confusion on his face.  “And you believed her?”

“Yes,”

“Why?”

Ian was taken aback by that question but he gripped his hands tightly and kept the surprise off his face.  Why?  Because he was Terry Milkovich.  But that answer wouldn’t work for the jury.  

“You want to know why I believed it was Terry’s baby?”

“I want to know why you’re all claiming it was.  I mean, it could’ve been yours, couldn’t it?  Or your brother’s?  Or half the southside’s?”

Ian choked down the furious torrent of curse words that almost burst out of him, but Gracy was already on it.

“Objection,” she called in a flatly professional tone, “Calls for speculation by the witness.”

“Oh, but does it really?” Shanley quipped sarcastically.

“Sustained.” the judge snapped.  “Witness should please respond only to the original question.”

“Okay,” Ian replied, his voice measured and even, “You want to know why?  Because I’ve spent my whole life living in the same neighborhood as Terry Milkovich.  Because I’ve seen what an amoral animal that guy sitting there can be.  I’ve seen him beat people half to death over nothing, over the color of their skin.  I’ve seen this guy beat me, beat people I love, put guns to the heads of people I love…”

“Alright, Mr. Gallagher…”

“I’ve also spent my whole life in the same neighborhood as Mandy Milkovich.  I’ve seen what an amazing and caring person she can be.  I’ve seen her protect people and support them.  I’ve seen her go out of her way for the people she loves, the people  _ I _ love, never expecting anything in return…”

“Your honor…”

“So you want to know why I believed Mandy?  I guess it just depends on who you think is more trustworthy.  The woman you want to call a whore, but who is actually one of the most incredible people I’ve ever known, or the fucking Nazi.”  

A shallow gasp rose throughout the courtroom.  Shanley was objecting loudly but Ian could see a tiny smirk playing on Peterson’s lips.

“Sustained,” the judge stated in a far more cordial voice as he turned to address Ian.  “The witness will please refrain from using provocative labels.”

“Yes, sir,” Ian stated, turning his gaze back to Shanley.  

The lawyer looked a little baffled.

“Alright, fine, Mr. Gallagher, I guess it does depend on who you’re willing to believe,” he said pointedly.  “And if you want to believe your former lover…”

“Mandy’s not my former lover.  I’m gay.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.  So do you.  Like, five minutes ago.”

There was a light trill of laughter in the gallery.  Shanley’s face was darkening but it was Terry’s expression that really drew Ian’s eye.  He looked murderous.

But fuck him.

“Mr. Gallagher,” Shanley stated, his tone imperious as he tried to regroup, “you testified yesterday that when Terry Milkovich entered his living room, you and his son Mikhailo were engaged in a sexual liaison, is that correct?”

“Yeah,” he responded dryly.

Shanley nodded, “And you were in the penetrative role, in this encounter?”

“Yeah.”  He could just make out Terry’s face over Shanley’s shoulder.  The man was practically squirming in his seat.  

Good.

“You also testified that Terry Milkovich approached you and began hitting you, is that correct.”

“Yeah.”

“And you believe that Terry Milkovich’s actions were intended as an assault on you?”

Ian could feel his brows furrowing.  Where was this guy going with this?

“Yeah.”

Shanley nodded, looking a little smug.  “Mr. Gallagher, how do you know that Terry Milkovich wasn’t trying to protect his son from you?”

“From me?” The words were out of his mouth, confused and vulnerable, before he could stop them.  Ian could see the slightest hint of tension pulling at Peterson’s lips at the prosecution’s table.  He could see Gracy slowly twisting a pen.  Shit!  Had he fucked up that bad?

“Yes, Mr. Gallagher, from you.  After all, this man walked into his home and found you pinning his son down and sodomizing him.”  Shanley dragged the words out into long syllables, letting them hang in the air for a moment.  “So let’s be honest here, Mr. Gallagher.  You can’t say for certain that Terry Milkovich didn’t think you were trying to hurt his son. Can you?”

Ian’s head was starting to swim, and he could feel his heart racing.  Could he say that?  It suddenly sounded so possible.

But no, no, fuck no.  That was not what happened, not at all.  He knew that because he knew the whole story.  He knew Terry Milkovich and what he’d done to his children, and that fuck was not going to get away with it by splitting hairs.  

He knew the answers.  He knew them because he knew the truth.  But he couldn’t think if he was this worked up.  

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the satisfied curl of Terry’s lips.

The last time Ian had seen that look on Terry’s face, it was when Mickey had given up, when he’d flipped Svetlana off his lap and started fucking her in earnest, just to make the shit stop.  Suddenly, all Ian could see was Mickey’s eyes, peering out of his blood streaked face, teary and miserable and so sorry as his own father forced some hooker to ride him like a fucking toy.  Ian’s hands were curling into fists again.  He wasn’t going to lose now.  

_ Keep calm.  Keep calm and bury the fucker.   _

He could do that.  

“For certain?” he asked in a falsely innocent voice, “Who can say anything for certain.  Anything’s possible.  But then, I think we’re in an American court so the standard isn’t possible, it’s reasonable, right?” He gazed at the lawyer in mock wonder for a moment but gave the man no chance to respond.  “I mean, if Terry was so worried about Mickey, then why did he attack Mickey himself?  Hmmm?  Why did he beat his face to a pulp and pistol whip him?”

“Well, Mr. Gallagher,” Shanley replied, trying to regain the upper hand, “Mikhailo Milkovich did attack his father first.”

“No, Terry attacked me first.  For having the nerve to have gay sex with his kid.  Which is exactly what he told me when he was beating the hell out of me.  And yeah, then Mickey attacked him.  He did it to protect me.”

The words poured out of Ian and as he heard them, they took on new meaning.  Had he ever really even thanked Mickey for that?  

“Mr. Gallagher…”

“What?  You want to throw more garbage theories at me?”

“Your honor…”

Beside Ian, the judge practically snorted, “You asked the question, counselor.  The witness may answer.”

But Ian wasn’t stopping anyway.  “If Terry was trying to protect Mickey, then explain his words.  Explain the gun.  Explain forcing Svetlana and Mickey to have sex.  Because none of that makes any damn sense if Terry thought I was hurting Mickey but it makes a hell of a lot of sense if you’re a homophobic bastard who wants to destroy his own kid just for being who he is and loving who he loves.”

There was a screech as Terry’s chair suddenly slid across the floor, but Shanley had an arm up and on his shoulder fast.  The old fuck slid back into his seat but the furious fire in his eyes was only glowing hotter.  

“Mr. Gallagher,” Shanley stated feebly, his attention still half-focused on his volatile client, “I don’t have all the answers because I’m not the one testifying.  But I will state that there seems to be a lot of gray areas here.”

“Only for someone with a really good imagination.”

The courtroom was silent for a moment, broken only by an awkward cough from the gallery.  Shanley face was a picture of frustration and Ian felt some relief.  That hadn’t gone well for the defense.  

And thank fuck it hadn’t, because the look on Terry’s face was clear.  As far as he was concerned, Ian was a dead man walking.  Ian bit his tongue and forced his eyes away, resisting the urge to throw the fucker a cocky grin.  Svet and Mickey both still had to testify.  It wasn’t worth it to poke that bear.  

“Alright, Mr. Gallagher,” Shanley muttered, sorting through some papers, “Let’s go back to the day you and your brother attempted to break into Terry Milkovich’s home.

Several hours later, Ian sat on a hard wooden bench in the hallway, his head back and his eyes closed.  He’d just read through the collection of panicked texts from Lip, explaining that he was stuck in a meeting and running late.  He’d shot back a quick message, telling Lip not to worry.  He’d take the El home.  He didn’t want to wait.

He didn’t want to stay in this building a minute longer.

He felt some air displacement against his face and let his eyes fall open, completely unsurprised to see Bryce Peterson standing in front of him.  The lawyer looked tired but satisfied.

“So, I’m done?” Ian asked, hearing the weariness in his own voice.  

“You’re excused.” the lawyer answered, checking his watch and glancing down the hall, “As they said, they reserve the right to recall you, but I can pretty much guarantee that won’t happen.  Shanley isn’t stupid.  He won’t want to risk getting his ass handed to him again.”

A small, grateful smile spread across Ian’s lips. “So it went okay?”

“You’re kidding, right?” Peterson shook his head.  “You provided logical, sound answers to all his misdirecting questions, took none of his shit, and gave a ton right back to him.  You threw him off his game. It was a thing of beauty.”

The phone in Peterson’s pocket began buzzing like crazy and he whipped it out and stared at the screen.  “I’m needed,” he stated loftily, glancing down the hall again, “Are you good to get home?”

Ian nodded.

“Alright then, we’ll be in touch.”  He shoved his phone back in his pocket and turned.  “You should text Mickey.”

Ian’s head jerked up. “What?”

“You heard me,” the other man stated as strode down the hallway.

Ian stared after him for a moment, letting his words sink in.  He  _ should  _ text Mickey.  He’d promised he would.  Grabbing his phone, Ian stood up and loosened his tie as he headed down the hallway towards the stairs.  He wanted to text Mickey.  No, fuck that, he wanted to call him and hear his voice.  The problem was the words they’d say.  They’d had some necessary discussions recently, but as important as they were, Ian just couldn’t handle another one tonight.

He sighed as he held the phone.  There’d been a time when he and Mickey could hold bullshit conversations about nothing that lasted for hours.  

He’d fucking loved those.  

He glanced at the phone again and sighed.  He’d promised. He wasn’t going to break any more promises.  

He texted a quick  _ hey _ as he headed down the stairs.

His phone vibrated in his hand almost immediately.  Palming it, he strode across the huge marble lobby, heading towards the doors.  He needed to be out of this building.  

The phone started ringing before he even made it to the outdoor stairs.  He didn’t even check the screen, just lifted it to his ear.

“Mick?”

“What the fuck, Ian?”

“What?”

“You didn’t text me back.”

He couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped him. “I was trying to get out of the courthouse.  It was only a minute!”

“Yeah,” Mickey replied, and Ian could hear the sheepishness in his voice. 

“I’m sorry, though,” he stated quickly, “Everyone’s worried and I should have known that.  You should see the shitload of texts Lip sent me when he realized he was going to be late to pick me up.”

“Lip’s not there?” The protectiveness in Mickey’s voice made his heart perk up a bit.

“He’s not but it’s fine.  Peterson told me it went really well.” He could vaguely hear Mickey exhale in relief on the other end of the line.  “I’ll tell you about it, but not today, okay?  My brain hurts.”

“You okay?” Now Mickey sounded worried.  

“Yeah, I’m okay.  Just need to get home.”  Ian glanced up at the gate to the El.  The stairs seemed so high.  He needed something to push him through.  “Can you do me a favor?”

There was a little pause.  “Probably.”

Ian smiled.  “Can you just, like, talk to me about your day?”

“My fucking day?” Mickey asked with a tinge of amusement.  “Sure, but it might be the thing that finally puts you to sleep.  All I did was recaulk windows.”

As the train doors slid open in front of him, Ian stepped on quickly and collapsed onto a seat. 

“That sounds fucking perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Up: Mickey and Ian lay their cards on the table. 
> 
> I will try to get back to my weekly posting schedule but somehow summer is already ending so we'll see.


	14. Fear of Living On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian and Mickey deal their hands.

**August 14, 2019**

“Gallagher, just get your ass over here!”

Kev’s panicked voice was almost drowned out by the incessant wailing in the background.  Even through the phone, it was killing Ian’s ears.  

In his doorway, Carl jumped down from the pull-up bar and mouthed, “What the fuck is that?”

“Amy,” he whispered back, covering the phone to tamp down the howls, “Ear infection.”

Carl screwed up his face and turned.  “Never fucking having kids,” Ian heard him mumble as he headed down the stairs.

“Gallagher!?”

Ian sighed.  “Yeah, man, I’ll come by, but I don’t think I’ll be able to tell you much.”

“Doesn’t matter.  You’re an EMT, man.  That makes you the hood doctor.”

“Vee is the hood doctor.”

“Whatever, man.  Then you’re the hood second opinion.  Just get over here.”

Ian groaned, but he was already grabbing his bag and heading out into the hallway.  “Alright, alright, I’m on my way.”  He thundered down the back stairs and grabbed the half empty coffee pot.  “Where’s Vee?”

“Working,” came the harried reply, “She was up with her all night until I got back from the bar and she had to be in at nine today.  I haven’t fucking slept.  We’re like the walking dead over here.”

“I love how you still call it a bar,” Ian chuckled as he grabbed himself a mug.  

“Oh fuck you, Gallagher.  They serve drinks there, don’t they?  Besides, I spend most of my time behind the bar now.” He paused for a moment and Ian could hear Amy, her voice fading into pathetic whimpers.  He threw back the rest of his coffee and headed for the door.

“I’ll be there in two.”

“Okay, but Ian,” Kev interjected, his voice suddenly less harried and more concerned.  “Mickey’s here.”

Ian froze on the steps.  

Shit.

He hadn’t seen Mickey in days.  They’d texted a lot and that had been good but neither one of them had wanted to tip the fragile balance they’d reached.  

But maybe now was the time.  They’d reached a good place but it wasn’t where either of them wanted to be forever.  Ian was sure about that.  The problem, from what he could tell, was that neither of them knew how to move past it.  Mickey was afraid to be vulnerable.  Ian was afraid to push.  He was afraid to fuck with the status quo, afraid Mickey might finally decide he didn’t want to risk any more of himself on his inconstant ex-boyfriend.

Taking the final two steps with sudden speed, Ian replied, “It’s no big deal, Kev.  I’ll be there in a second,” and ended the call.  He headed up the sidewalk with determined strides.  What else could he do?  Mickey had already risked enough for him.  It was his turn now.

He could hear Amy wailing by the time he made it to Kev’s gate.  He pushed open the front door to find a dazed looking Jemma sitting on the couch in her nightgown, clinging to a stuffed dog.  Kev was pacing in the kitchen while Amy snuffled against his shoulder.  

“Hell, Kev.  Why didn’t you just take her to the clinic?” Ian asked as he walked through the dining room and set his emergency bag on the counter.  

“She hates doctors.” the taller man replied, rubbing the little girl’s back.

“Who doesn’t,” Ian replied, grabbing his thermometer.  “But that doesn’t mean we don’t need them.”  He shot Kev a look, then turned his attention to Amy.  

“Hey, sweetie, I need to see your face for one second,” he spoke soothingly as he ran the little machine over her forehead and down to her temple.  He glanced at the screen as it beeped.

“A hundred and two, Kev,” he said incredulously, “I don’t care if she hates doctors. It’s time to take her in.  Hood doctor’s orders.”

“Fine,” the taller man replied, speed dialing the pediatrician, “Can you shoot Vee a text.  She’ll want to meet me there.  Convince her I can handle it.”  He reached for Jemma, who was starting to doze off.  “C’mon, baby.  We need to take Sissy to the doctor.”

“She looks exhausted,” Ian said, following Kev into the living room.

“She’s been up all night, too,” Kev replied, cradling both little girls in his arms.

“Then let me put her to bed.  My shift doesn’t start for eight hours. I can stay with her until you’re back.”  Ian reached for the little girl and Kev passed her over willingly.  “I mean, you’ll be back by then, right.”

“Yeah, I got an appointment.  No waiting.  It isn’t like the emergency room.” Kev pushed his feet into an old pair of sneakers and grabbed for his wallet and keys. “Health insurance is the shit, man.  But I guess I don’t have to tell you that.”  Kev shifted the still whimpering Amy to his other shoulder.  “That’s another thing I guess I need to thank Lana for,” he said in a voice that was both bitter and wistful.  “Fuck it, whatever.  Can you put her down?”

“Yeah,” Ian replied, hefting the half-asleep three year-old on his hip.  He glanced around the room.

“He’s in the backyard with the Yev-Man,” Kev said knowingly. “Think you two can hold this place together while I’m gone?”

“Does he know I’m here?”  Ian asked.

“Yeah, man.  I wouldn’t pull that shit on either of you.  It’s cool.  Just put her down and go talk to him.”  

Amy picked that moment to renew her wailing and Kev’s attention immediately shifted.  “I know, sweetie.  We’re gonna make it better,” he mumbled placatingly.  “You good?” he asked as he pulled the front door open.  

Ian nodded but the big man was already gone.

He took a few minutes to settle the other exhausted child, getting her a cup of milk and helping her brush her teeth before he laid her down in her bed.  Jemma huffed and rolled over and was out cold before he reached the bedroom door.  

He shot a quick text to Vee, then found his way back downstairs and through the kitchen, pausing at the door.  He could see them through the window, Mickey crouched down in the grass, talking to the tow headed little boy, who was rubbing tiredly at those familiar blue eyes.  When Mickey held his hands out, Yev flew right into them, wrapping his little arms around his father’s neck and laying a cheek against his shoulder.  

Ian couldn’t help the breath that caught in his chest as he stared at the little tableau.  Mickey was wandering around the yard, reaching down and collecting a few small toys with one hand while he held the sleepy little boy secure with the other.  They looked so right together, so natural, and Ian knew suddenly and without a shadow of a doubt that he would do anything in his power to help the man he loved reconnect with his kid. 

There was nothing in the world that would protect Yev and Mickey from the poison of Terry Milkovich like a healthy father/son relationship.  

Micky had made it to the bottom of the stairs, artlessly cramming his handful of action figures into Yev’s little backpack.  The little boy looked ready for a nap himself but he smiled at Ian when he spotted him through the glass.  Returning the gesture, Ian reached for the door handle.

Mickey was still rustling around in the little bag but he looked up as the door squeaked.  His blue eyes were cautious but not hostile as Ian headed out onto the tiny back deck.  

“Hey,” he offered.

“Hey,” Ian responded, gazing down at the pair.  He took advantage of the brunette’s temporary distraction to take a good look at him for a moment.  He looked better, which was a relief.  His color was good and his hair had regained a lot of its natural shine.  A smile pulled at the corners of Ian’s lips.  Mickey’s hair was spiked up in the front, the way he’d worn it when they’d first started this thing, two dumb kids stealing clandestine fucks in the cooler at the Kash and Grab.  Ian let his gaze wash over the other man, taking in the shiny new clothes his sister kept forcing on him.  Leave it to Mickey, though, to make cargo shorts and a grey v-neck t-shirt look so good.  His cheeks had lost their skeletal gauntness but the bones were still sharper, the eyes larger in his face.  He was fucking beautiful and the sight only served to reinforce a stamp of certainty in Ian’s heart.

He was always,  _ always _ going to love Mickey Milkovich.  He’d loved him though the end of his adolescence and the entirety of his adulthood.  Over the years, he’d treated that love with care and derision.  He’d worshipped it and spit on it but it had never, ever gone away.  And right now, all he wanted to do was share it with Mickey

If he was given the opportunity, this time he’d treat it like fucking gold.

“You need a hand?” he asked casually as he strode down the stairs.

“I need his hat,” Mickey answered quickly standing up to reposition an increasingly boneless Yevy.  “Svet gets pissed when he’s outside without it.”

“Is it in here?” Ian rustled through the little bag with two hands, quickly producing a brown safari hat.  He fitted it carefully over the the blond tresses, ignoring the shiver that raced up his arm when his knuckle brushed against Mickey’s jaw.  The brunette tensed for a moment, drawing in a quick breath and glancing up at the house.  

“Did Kev go?”

Ian nodded.  “Yeah, he took Amy to the doctor.  I put Jemma to bed.  She’d looked wrecked.”  He glanced over at Mickey, who was still studying the backdoor, “I told him I’d stick around until he got back.  That okay?”

Mickey nodded hurriedly. “It’s fine, man.” he said, striving for nonchalance as he sank down on the bottom step and arranged Yev in his lap.  The little guy was out like a light now, his chest rising and falling evenly as he curled his fingers into the neckline of Mickey’s shirt.  

Ian slid down on the second step, letting his hands fall between his knees.  It was a little cooler today, thank fuck, and the stairs were in a patch of shade, but it was still way too warm.  Ian watched with fascination as a single bead of sweat slid down the side of Mickey’s throat and splashed against his collar.  

“I was kinda surprised Svet let Yev over here with Amy sick.  She’s protective as hell, especially now.”

Ian’s eyes shot back up at the sound of Mickey’s voice, his attention drawn to the brunette’s profile as he glanced slightly over his shoulder.

“Just an ear infection.  Not contagious,” Ian answered quickly, “but you know how it is.  We’re all doing better around here, but still, everyone’s gotta work.”

Mickey nodded, his eyes fixed back on the sleeping kid in his lap.  “How’s that working out exactly?”  He waved his hand back towards the house.  “I mean, with these guys.  I kinda want to know what the kid’s in the middle of but I can’t really ask.”

Ian nodded.  “I mean, I don’t know all the details.”

“She took the Alibi from Kev?”

“Yeah.”

“And they’re still willing to help her?”

Ian sighed.  “That took a while.  Like I said, I don’t know all the details exactly.  There was a lot of shit going on when all of this happened.  They worked out some agreement where she pays them a pretty decent monthly fee from the bar profits.”

“The Alibi makes a profit?” There was a slight Milkovich bite to the words and it tugged at Ian’s lips again.  

“The Alibi’s doing great,” Ian said.  “But that doesn’t make everything okay.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

Now it was Mickey who let out a huff of breath.  “I kinda can’t believe she agreed to give them the money.”

Ian nodded.  “Yeah, that was kind of shady at first, too.  I think she tried to make them stay with her because she had the bar now.  That shit all stopped.”  Ian paused, letting his own gaze drift towards the yard.  “The thing is, she loves them.” he said quietly.

“They ain’t together, though.”

Ian swallowed.  “Sometimes love isn’t enough to wipe away all the other shit.”

He could see Mickey’s nodding pensively out of the corner of his eye.  “She just needed to have some control for once.” The brunette said quietly, “She’s never really had any.  I mean, her own fucking father sold her to a pimp.”  He glanced back at Ian again.  “I’m just saying, I get that there are reasons she did what she did.”

“Everyone’s had shit happen that they can’t control.” Ian whispered back.  “It doesn’t make it okay to hurt the people you love.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

Ian felt his chest tighten.  “Mick, I’m so…”

“I know.” The blue gaze fell away, fixating back on the lawn.  “Me, too.”

They sat in awkward silence for a moment.

“How are things going with this little guy?” Ian asked carefully.  

Mickey glanced down at the sleeping boy, his expression softening.  “I don’t know how to tell him.” he admitted quietly, “I don’t know how to explain all of this shit to him.”

“So don’t.  Not yet, at least.  Just build up a relationship with him.”  Ian glanced down at the little boy’s face.  Yev was completely sacked out, perfectly trusting in his father’s arms.  “I mean, you already are.”

Mickey huffed.  “I don’t want to build something fake.”

“Nothing you’re building is fake.  You’re his dad.”

“Yeah,” Mickey interjected, frustration evident in his voice, “And what the hell does that even mean?  I don’t know a single fucking thing about being a father.  I don’t know a single fucking person who knows a fucking thing about being a father because no one I know ever had a real father.”

“But Kev’s doing great anyway.”

“I ain’t Kev.”

“Yeah, okay.  I mean, Kev spends time with his kids, right.  He sits down with them and listens to them. He worries about whether they’re safe.” Ian reached out and nudged the brunette’s shoulder gently, “He holds them.” 

The breath Mickey drew in was harsh.  “I can’t fuck this up.”

“You won’t.  You’re going to be a good dad.”

“I wasn’t before.  Not really.  You were there for him more than me.”

Ian sighed, his eyes falling to his feet.  “I pretty much ditched him when you went away.  Let’s not go putting me on a fucking pedestal.”  He twisted his fingers together nervously. “Stop dwelling on that shit.  You can’t go back and change any of it.  Right now, you’ve got a little kid who thinks you’re awesome who also happens to be your son.  If you want to be a good dad, just keeping doing what you’re doing and you’ll be fine.” he nudged at Mickey’s shoulder again, “Okay.”

Mickey remained silent but offered him a little nod, turning to gaze back at him.  “What’s up with you?  You’re the one who looks tired now.”

“It’s nothing.” Ian muttered, letting his gaze drift back to the yard.

“Ian.”

“I haven’t been sleeping great.  Stress can mess with my meds.”

“Are you…”

“I’m handling it, Mick,” he answered, keeping his voice calm as he locked eyes with the brunette.  “I’ve been to my shrink twice and she’s got me doing this mood journal thing.  I’m taking care of myself.”  When Mickey continued to stare at him, he offered a little smile, “I promise.”

Mickey nodded but his face was tense again.  

“What is it?” Ian asked.

“I fucking…” the other man took a steadying breath. “I hate how much this asshole has managed to fuck with everybody. Even locked up, he’s still fucking with everybody.”

“Well, I fucked with him pretty good when I testified.”

A cold smile crept across Mickey’s lips.  “I know.”

They sat in silence again but it was comfortable now.  Cars drove past the road behind the yard.

“I’m scared.”

Ian turned his head quickly. “What?”

Mickey’s eyes were on Yev’s sleeping face again, but his gaze was unfixed, as though he were looking right through him.  Ian breathed in, shifting closer again.  “Mick?”

“Fuck.” The word was hushed and laced with stress.  Ian could make out a new pallor in Mickey’s cheeks.  

“Talk to me.”

The blue eyes fell closed.  “I can’t...I’m not afraid of him, not like I used to be.  I mean, I was always afraid of him because I knew he’d hurt me or kill me if he found out what I was.  He’d be able to, because I didn’t know how to fight back against him.  There was, like, this underlying sense that I couldn’t hit back, couldn’t defend myself, because he was my dad.  That’s gone now.  He ever gets a chance to come after me or someone I care about, I will fuck him up.”

“Good.”

“Yeah.”

“What are you scared about?”

Mickey’s blue eyes fell on him.  “Facing it.  Saying it outloud, in public.  Letting that fuck actually see that he hurt…” He choked off the last word, turning his away before Ian could see the shame.

Ian felt himself slide down to the bottom step.  By now he was just used to his body moving to protect Mickey before his brain could even catch up.  He let his arm sling itself around the brunette’s shoulders and pull him gently against his side.  Mickey came willingly, cradling Yev’s head carefully as he leaned in.  

“I get that,” he said quietly, leaning in close and keeping his voice quiet, letting Mickey avoid his gaze until he was ready.  “I felt vulnerable as hell, up there in front of everyone.  But here’s the thing, and I promise I’m not just saying this.  I wasn’t anywhere near as vulnerable as him.”

“Oh bull…”

“No, Mick, I mean it.  It was fucking amazing.  I mean, he’s so used to doing whatever the fuck he wants, saying what he wants, hurting who he wants. But in there, everyone was telling him he was wrong.  Everyone was looking at him, judging him, hating him for what he was.  The tables were turned.  And there wasn’t a fucking thing he could do about it.”

“Still don’t fucking want to do it.”

“Yeah, I know. But you will.”

“I’m not as strong as you, man.”

“You’re twice as strong as me, easy.  You always have been.”

“Ian…”

“No, you told me once that everyone doesn’t get to blurt out how they feel all the time.  I didn’t fucking get that.  My family loved me regardless and they gave me a place to talk about shit.  I never fucking recognized that you were in real danger and I was stupid because I should’ve known.” He pulled away slightly, letting his own eyes drift back towards the yard.  “I couldn’t have handled the shit you’ve handled.  I wouldn’t have survived.”

A beam of light suddenly made its way through the tree branches as the sun shifted overhead.  It landed across Yev’s face, drawing Mickey’s gaze.  

“I should bring him inside,” he said.

Ian drew in a sharp breath. “Mick…”

“Ian, it’s not…” Ian could feel Mickey sigh and lean into his hold.  “Just stay here, okay.  I’ll be right back.” He kept his gaze fixed on Ian’s, a slight pleading expression in the blue of his eyes, until Ian nodded slightly and pulled his arm away.  

“Sleep tight, bud,” he whispered as Mickey stood up and carried the little boy, still sound asleep, inside the house. 

Ian folded his hands together and pressed them against his lips, his body tense.  Was he pushing too hard again?  He wasn’t sure but he did know one thing.  He owed Mickey apologies and he needed to get them out.  Mickey needed to hear them so he’d stop trying to own everyone else’s fucking guilt.  

He stiffened when he heard the door creak open and felt the vibration of footsteps across the steps.  He could feel nervous tension building in his spine as the other man approached.  Had he pissed Mickey off?  Was the other man about to tell him to go the fuck away?”

A warm rush of relief raced through him as Mickey settled carefully onto the step beside him.  He was still and tense, but he was there, and Ian bit down on his lip to hide his grateful smile.  They stared out into the grass, both quiet and pensive as the moments ticked by.

“Talk.”

Ian jerked and turned sideways.  “What?”

Beside him, Mickey pulled out a cigarette, twisting it nervously in his fingers.  “You want to talk, so talk.  I’ll listen.  I won’t try to run away or shit this time.” He lit up and took a deep drag before handing the butt off to Ian, who accepted it gratefully.

“I’m sorry,” he said slowly, letting the smoke drift out of his mouth and feather away in the still air.  “I’m so fucking sorry.  You were dealing with all that shit with Terry and I didn’t help.  All I did was push you for more.”

“Why?” 

Ian sighed, “Because I was sick of hiding.  I wanted us to be out, to be together.  I wanted you to stop being afraid but I wasn’t really thinking about what you were afraid of in the first place.  In my head, I’d told my family and they’d handled it.  Why couldn’t you?” He laughed darkly.  “As if Frank is the same as Terry.”

“Frank sucks,” Mickey offered tepidly.

“He’s a worthless, narcissistic piece of shit,” Ian agreed, “but he isn’t Terry.” He let his eyes drift back towards Mickey, who still stared fixedly out into the yard, “You said the other day that I live in a dream world, and maybe sometimes I do, but it’s intentional.  I’m not naive, I’m willfully ignorant of shit that’s happening right in front of me when it doesn’t fit into the way I want the world to be.  It’s fucking inexcusable.  And I wasn’t even really sick then.”

“You were sick,” Mickey interjected sharply, turning towards him.  “You were slipping down that whole time.  And you were as infected with that shit neighborhood as the rest of us.”

“Well, I’m not sick now.  I’m not naive.  And I do know what I want.”

Mickey’s eyes fled back to the yard.  He sighed and took another pull.

“The problem is that you only want it when it’s easy.  I got locked up and that was hard so you ran.  It’s that simple.  You admitted as much the night before the border.  You said it was hard to see me locked up like that.  Okay, fine, I get that, but you don’t think it was way harder to be the one locked up? I’m not putting that on you or anything,” he continued quickly, “That shit was on me, but you just disappeared.  And now you want me to trust you again.  How?”

Ian let the words wash over him, stinging and ripping as they went.  It hurt like hell, but it also brought relief.  Mickey was talking to him, telling him how he felt.  He  _ was  _ trusting him.

Ian was going to treat that like gold this time.

“You’re right,” he stated frankly, “You’re right about all of it.  And I can’t give you any good excuse.”  Mickey handed him back the cigarette and he took a long drag as he thought about his words. “I mean, I could tell you that it took me a long time to start to get well again, that I was angry and self-destructive and that’s all true.  Everything was such a clusterfuck, in and out of my head.  At the time, a clean break seemed easier and I convinced myself it was actually better for both of us.  But that was selfish as hell.  I know that, but if you let me, I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

Mickey reached for the cigarette, took a deep breath, and stared him down. “Would you stop fucking pussyfooting and…”

“I want us to try again.”

Mickey’s cheeks pinked a little.  “Fuck.”  He muttered.  

“Do you want me to shut up,” Ian asked hesitantly, averting his gaze.  He hadn’t meant to just blurt it out like that and a panicked tremor was now sweeping over him.  He fisted his hand against the shivering and waited.  

“Fuck, Ian,” the brunette murmured, exhaustion creeping back into his voice, “You and me, we always end up fucking hurting each other.” He cast his eyes around the yard, staring hard at the sky as he fended off frustrated tears.  “You ain’t sick of this shit yet?”  He stubbed out the cigarette and chucked it angrily into a coffee can on the stairs, then pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes.  

Ian stared at the tense lines of the other man’s shoulders.  For a moment, he considered shutting up.  Maybe he’d pushed far enough for one day.  But another, louder part of him stated clearly that he couldn’t keep dragging this out.  It wasn’t good for him and it definitely wasn’t good for Mickey.  If the other man wanted to tell him to go to hell, he had the right to, but he needed to lay his cards on the table now.  

Carefully, he lay a hand on Mickey’s shaking shoulder.

“C’mere,” he begged, giving a little pull, “Please.”  

There was barely any resistance this time as Mickey let himself be pulled close.  Ian shifted quickly, his body once again acting on its own.  He leaned back against the railing, drawing Mickey beteen the V of his thighs.  The tension ebbed out of the shorter man as Ian tucked him against his chest and rested his chin in his hair.  His arms circled Mickey loosely, seeking out his hands and winding their fingers together.  He paused, waiting for any hints of reluctance, but the brunette exhaled deeply and melted into him.  

“Please listen,” he said quietly, resting his chin on Mickey’s shoulder.  “We’ve made a lot of mistakes, okay, mostly me.  But there was a lot of shit working against us.  So, just think about what’s changed, okay.  Terry’s gone.  Your whole family knows who you are and none of them give a shit.  I’m healthy and I’m going to do every fucking thing I can to stay that way.  We’re both legally employed.   _ Neither  _ of us is running from the cops.  All of the outside shit that kept fucking us up is gone.  All that’s left is us.” 

Mickey drew a deep breath in and it rumbled against Ian’s chest.  He let his fingers tighten around  Mickey’s hands, his thumb tracing gently over the fingertips.  

“I want to be with you,” he whispered, “I mean, you’ve figured that out already.”

“You never say it,” Mickey whispered back.

“Mick, the thing I want most is for you to be okay.  You didn’t want me around before so I tried to stay away.”

“Can you blame me?”

“No.”

“And now everything’s better so you want me back?”  Mickey’s voice was still quiet but there was an undertone of acceptance that Ian didn’t like.  

“Mick, I always want you.” The words came out forcefully and he wrapped their linked arms tightly over Mickey’s chest, holding him firm.  “No matter what else has happened.  When you were gone, I tried to pretend.  It never fucking worked.

I do want you back.  I want us to do this right this time.  But I’m not stupid or blind and I understand that it might not be something you can give me.  I get that I’m asking you to trust me and that you’ve done that before, and it was a huge fucking risk.  I get that I didn’t honor that trust, that I fucking spit on it.  And if you can’t trust me again, if you can’t give this another shot then I’ll respect that.  It’s nothing I don’t deserve.”

“Ian…”

“No, Mick, you’re gonna try to make me feel better, but no.  This is the stuff I need you to hear.  That there are parts of myself that I can’t stand because of what I put you through.  I’ve spent the last two years wishing I could tell you how sorry I am.  You let me do that and I appreciate it.  If that’s all you can give me, then I accept that.  But if you could give me another chance, if you could trust me just once more, I’d do everything that I could to prove myself to you.”

Mickey sighed.  “I took another chance, man.” He said dejectedly, slumping further against Ian’s chest. He raised one of their linked hands in front of his eyes, turning them back and forth as he examined them.  “I asked you to come with me.”

“I wanted to.”

“You didn’t.”

Ian drew in a deep breath.  “Do you think I was fucking with you, with Mexico?  Do you think I was just playing games?” he asked hesitantly, afraid of the answer.

Mickey sighed again, but it was quieter this time.  “I don’t know, man.  I mean, no, I don’t think you thought it would be funny to lead me on and leave at the Mexican border but…”

“I wanted to go.  Take everything else, my health and my family out of the equation, and I would’ve gone.”

“And your boyfriend.”

“Nope.” Ian felt his arms tighten, squeezing Mickey close, “No, he wouldn’t have been enough.  Hell, he wasn’t.   After the cops came to talk to me, I told him I wasn’t gonna get involved with you again.  I knew I was lying, to him and to myself, even as I was saying it.  I would always choose you first and he knew it.  It’s the main reason we aren’t together anymore.”  

Ian relaxed his hold a little, letting his head fall back against the railing as he searched for the right words.

“I wanted to go with you,” he said finally, “but please believe me when I tell you that would’ve been the end for me.  You’re seeing me now, after two years of taking care of my mental health.  But back then, when we were standing at that border, being healthy still felt more like an accident than a sustainable way of life.  I couldn’t go on the run and stay sane.  I wasn’t good enough at it yet.”  Ian opened his eyes and stared up at the tree branches overhead.  “I’d have self-destructed and dragged you right down with me.”

“I know.”

Ian felt his whole body go rigid. “What?”

Mickey squirmed against him, turning slightly until they could meet each other’s eyes.  “I get that, okay.  There’s a lot of shit between us but I’m not going to hold that decision over your head anymore.  I was in a fucked up, wreckless place when I escaped.  I wasn’t thinking straight either.  And I was really only thinking about me.”

“Mick…”

“No, you can fucking listen, too.”  Mickey stared hard at him.  “I knew how sick you were.  Shit, nobody knew better than me.”

“Cause I put you through hell.”

“Yeah, exactly.  But there you were, all healthy finally, and I want to steal you away and throw you back into the chaos.”

“You ended up being okay, though.”

Mickey snorted.  He shifted back around but pulled Ian’s arms around him tighter.  

“That’s because you gave me a chance.  I almost decided to just take all that money and drink myself to death on the beach but I finally made a good choice, used it to get somewhere safe, build some kind of life, learn an honest skill.  You’d done it.  Figured I could do the same.  But it could’ve gone a whole other way.  You didn’t know.  I didn’t know.”  

He paused for a second, glancing back over his shoulder, “I’m gonna pay you back.  Might take a while though, cause of the kid and shit.”

Ian felt his face twist in a grimace, “Are you fucking kidding me?  I’ll never take a dime of that back.”

“Oh, Christ, Gallagher, don’t get all fucking chivalrous on me.  That was a fuck ton of money.  If you had it, you could’ve had your own place by now and…”

Ian moved suddenly, bringing their intertwined hands up, squeezing them tight as he trapped Mickey’s chin between two fingers..  He saw Mickey draw back and took a deep breath, reining himself in.  It wasn’t Mickey he was pissed at.  It was everything and everyone that had every made the brunette doubt his own worth. 

“Listen to me,” he said, forceful desperation in his voice, “I’m not taking any of that damn money back, ever.  Don’t try to give it to me because it will be a waste of your fucking time.  I wanted you to have it, okay.  I fucking needed you to have it or I wouldn’t have ever fucking slept at night.  And before you even start ripping that apart and deciding that I was only trying to pay you to disappear or whatever self-deprecating shit you’re thinking, I want you to know that I needed you to be safe.   I needed that as bad as I needed to keep myself healthy and I left for both those reasons but the money had to go with you because that’s all I could do to keep you safe.  So don’t talk to me about returning it.  It wasn’t a loan.  It wasn’t even a fucking gift.  It was everything that I’d worked towards while you were gone, okay.  I made a lot of shit choices while you were locked up but that money was the result of the good ones, the smart ones, the ones that gave me a real chance.  And I gave it all to you because that’s what you’re worth to me, okay.  It’s not an amount of money, it’s the totality of my normal life.  And I gave it to you because I fucking love you, okay.”

Mickey’s eyes were glazed and wet as he stared back at him.  His whole body was trembling and suddenly Ian couldn’t fucking stand it anymore.  He pulled his hands free and twisted Mickey around in his arms until they were almost face to face.  The brunette came willingly, his eyes seeking as Ian cupped his cheeks and rested their foreheads together. 

“There’s a lot of shit I regret, Mick,” he whispered, “I regret not telling you I loved you, because I do.  I have almost since the beginning but I didn’t think you’d want to hear it so I kept the words to myself.  I thought you knew but that was fucking stupid to assume and I’m really fucking sorry that I did.  But don’t talk to me about returning that money.  The only thing I regret about that was that I didn’t have more to give you.”

He stared into Mickey’s eyes, pleading and a little panicked as the brunette blinked and sorted through his words.  He almost cried when he felt fingers thread through his hair and he let himself be lulled by their tandem breathing.  

“So what do you want now?” Mickey asked quietly against his lips. 

“I want to be with you.  I wanted to be with you when you were in Mexico. I want to be with you now that you’re back.  I just want to be with you.  You say I’m under you skin.  You’re there too.  It was my head that made me stay.  My heart wanted to be with you.  It still does and I’m pretty sure it always will.”

Mickey let his eyes fall close. “Fuck man, I don’t know.  How many times we gonna roll these dice?”

“Just once more.   Just once when the dice aren’t loaded.  That’s all we’ll need.”

“You’re so confident?”

“Yes,” He stated emphatically, running his thumbs along the planes of Mickey’s cheeks.  “I know you hate sappy shit, but if you didn’t, I’d tell you that I fucking believe in us and…”

His words were cut off by a sudden warm pressure against his mouth.   He sucked in a sharp breath, almost pulling back in surprise before his mind caught up and he pressed in.  It was a light kiss, closed lipped and gentle, but it sent a powerful rush of warmth through his whole body until every nerve ending was aware. He drew back first, his eyes still opened as he ran his thumb gently across Mickey’s bottom lip.

“I fucking love you.” He breathed.

“I know,” the brunette replied, “I fucking love you, too.”  He opened his eyes and met Ian’s gaze.

“Can you trust me again?”

Mickey swallowed but held his gaze.  “Almost.”

“Okay,” Ian nodded.  He pressed a final kiss to Mickey’s lips and leaned back against the rail, pulling the brunette back into his arms.  “I can wait as long as you need.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, Mickey won't make him wait long. However, I do want to give people a head's up. The next chapter is pretty crucial. I won't post it until I feel it's right, so there might be a little delay. My goal is two weeks (it's also probably going to be looooong!)
> 
> Next Up: Mickey takes the stand


	15. Getting Better, Can't You Tell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey's testimony doesn't go easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter might be one of the most exhausting things I've ever written in my life, and that includes work on my graduate thesis. It's really long and there's a lot going on and I considered breaking it into two shorter chapters many times, but ultimately, this is how it played out in my head so I decided to keep it this way. I'm actually really satisfied with it, which surprises me because there were times when it really wasn't coming together. Also, a WARNING. This chapter contains some pretty offensive language, uttered by a pretty offensive person. 
> 
> So anyway, without further ado...

**August 16, 2019**

Mickey Milkovich was well acquainted with the calm before the storm.  He could recognize the oppressive stillness in the air before the onset of a Chicago blizzard or the first strike of a dazzling, dangerous convection thunderstorm in Buenos Aires.  He could sense the coiling tension that would preclude an eruption of violence in his childhood home.  

He could feel it now, gathering along the edges of the courtroom, building upon itself as it roiled and circled.  And the eye of it hung directly over the defense table, where his father sat, seething.

The old man was getting ready to explode.  It had been brewing for two days now.

Well, no, that wasn’t really true  It had really been building for a month.  From the first word of Gracy’s opening statement, this had been stirring.  Mickey had realized this pretty quick.  He hated his father, but in order to survive, he’d also had to know the man really fucking well.  He’d spent a lot of time considering how Terry would have viewed the parade of witnesses called to testify against him.  The traitor cunt who should’ve kept her mouth shut had kicked things off, followed by the smart-assed motherfucker who always thought he was so much better than everyone around him.  Then some high and mighty college professor asshole who tried to explain him to the jury, like he didn’t have a right to do whatever he wanted with his own fucking family.  

Then Ian.  Then the fucking red-headed ass-digger who’d corrupted his son and knocked up his daughter.  Mickey had no doubt that in Terry’s deluded mind, Ian was somehow still responsible for the pregnancy, even has he himself stood trial for Mandy’s rape.  

Then the whore.

And now this.  Now his faggot son, the cherry on top of the shit stain sundae.  As far as Terry was concerned, there was no greater sin than the one Mickey was committing.  Mandy could be given a pass.  She was only a dumb cunt after all, and what could anyone expect from a dumb cunt?  But Mickey was his son, maybe not the oldest but the smartest, the leader, the one who was supposed to follow in his footsteps as the meanest motherfucker on the southside.  Instead, he’d become everything Terry hated most in the world.  

Mickey understood all of this about the man who was his father, so he found the tension in the courtroom unnerving but expected.  What he had found surprising so far was Terry’s restraint.  He’d half expected the man to fly into a profanity laced tirade the minute he laid eyes on his youngest son.  Instead, he’d been met with a flat, cold glare, without the slightest trace of familiarity.  Mickey knew that look.  He’d observed it throughout his formative years, directed at the “niggers” and “spics” and “penny-hoarding kikes” and everyone else Terry had considered too degenerate to live.  That look meant only one thing.  He wasn’t Terry’s kid anymore.  He was just some piece of shit to be fucked up at the earliest convenience.  

Mickey had escaped from prison and come out in spectacular fashion in the middle of a dive bar on the southside of Chicago, but even among all that, he thought this public rejection by the man he had once called “Dad” had still managed to be the most freeing moment of his life.  

He’d had plenty of time to appreciate this new found freedom and the icy indifference that heralded it.  He’d spent the past two days sitting directly in its gaze, Terry’s hazel eyes practically bulging with disdain.  

When Mickey had arrived at Gracy’s office for his final testimony prep, Ian Gallagher’s scent had still been all over him and his mouth had still borne the faintest tingling remnant of the other man’s lips.  He hadn’t let himself think too hard about the calming effect the lingering smell had on him.  Instead, he’d just indulged in the sense of peace and pointedly ignored the implications as he took a seat.  Gracy had been typing away at her laptop in her typical frenetic way, but she’d glanced up as he settled himself across from her.

“We need a new approach,” she’d said bluntly, glancing back to her computer almost immediately, “Shanley is switching tactics.”

“I thought Svet did okay,” he’d responded, a tension suddenly building in his stomach.  He’d crossed his arms over his chest, quickly suppressing the image of Ian wrapping himself around him on Kev and Vee’s back stairs.  “She told me it was okay.”

“She did fine,” Gracy had stated, her eyes never leaving the screen, “Better than fine, all things considered.  But Shanley isn’t stupid.  He’s shifting his approach.  He came at her factually and clinically.  It took some of the emotional impact out of the story.”

“And that’s bad?”

“Not from her.  Her role in this is very different than yours.  She is an incidental victim of this crime.  You were the target.  Additionally, her former profession already made her less sympathetic.”

“Cause she was a hooker?” Mickey had been taken aback by the anger in his own voice.  Gracy had looked up, surprise cracking through her cool facade.

“Excuse me?”

“Cause she was a hooker, right?  You’re saying people won’t give as much of a shit if she was hurt because she was a hooker?

“Mickey…”

“No, fuck that.  That’s bullshit and you know it.  Svet and me, there’s a lot of shit between us, but she didn’t get a choice that day either.  And she’s not perfect but she takes good fucking care of my kid and…”

“Mickey!” A voice from behind him had cut off his tirade.  He’d twisted around defensively to see Peterson striding into the room.  

“It’s bullshit!”

“Agreed.” the blond lawyer had replied, taking his own seat at the table, “No one’s saying it isn’t.  No one’s saying it’s fair.  Defense attorneys have been putting victims on trial since the dawn of justice.  We aren’t going to fix that during this trial, and fortunately we don’t have to because she held her own on the stand.  But our goal here is to put Terry Milkovich behind bars and to do that, we need to focus on your testimony now.”

Mickey had grimaced, hating the truth in those words.  “This isn’t fucking fair.”

Peterson had nodded.  “It’s not, but if Terry gets convicted, then she’ll be safe.  You’ll be safe, your son will be safe.  Somehow, I think that matters more to both of you than what’s fair.”  He’d shuffled through some paperwork.  “I have to admit, I’m surprised by how protective you are of her.  I thought you hated each other, honestly.”

Mickey’d shrugged.  “You seen my kid, right?  That kid is healthy and happy.  She did that when I wasn’t around.  I owe her.”

Peterson had only nodded.

“As I was saying,” Gracy’d suddenly interjected, “We need a new approach.  Shanley isn’t going to play word games with you, considering how badly that went when he tried it on Ian.”  She’d tapped a nail on the varnished wood of the table, her mind flitting from idea to idea.  

Mickey had kept his eyes fixed on his hands, curled into fists on the lacquered surface.  The lawyers could’ve plotted and planned all they wanted, but he knew what needed to be done.  

He just hadn’t wanted to do it.

“I need to show them I’m afraid,” he’d said slowly, letting his hands uncurl on the wood.  

Gracy and Peterson had both turned to look at him.  

“Afraid,” the stern-faced woman had stated consideringly, “Explain.”

Mickey had exhaled in a tired sigh.  “You had Mandy walk in there with her brave face on and that worked, right, even when she cracked around the edges a bit?  She looked like someone who was facing her fears.  But that shit ain’t gonna work for me.”

“It might look cocky,” Peterson had agreed, “That won’t win points with the jury.”

Mickey had nodded and even Gracy had been listening carefully.  “Yeah, but if I walk in there, the tattooed street thug, looking all scared and vulnerable and shit, that’ll get em all teary-eyed.  And Terry’ll think I look weak, which’ll piss him off, too.”

Peterson had looked impressed. “Do you think you can pull it off,” he’d asked earnestly.

Mickey had only shaken his head, but a sick knot had twisted in his stomach.  “I won’t have to pull shit off,” he’d muttered quietly, “You think I’m not scared of him?  I am.  So are you.  So’s everyone who’s ever met him.  They’d be crazy not to be.”

It was true.  It had been true then and it was true now, as he sat in the focus of his father’s laser-like hate.  He’d been raised to fear Terry, but maybe, just maybe, he could turn the man’s primary weapon against him.  

Shanley must have realized this.  The big, bulky fuck had spent the majority of his cross-examination thus far standing over by the side of the jury box.  This allowed Mickey to stay turned towards the jurors, giving them a perfect shot of his pale, tense face.  This had seemed like a dumb move at first, but Mickey assumed the lawyer was just picking the lesser of two shitty options.  If the jurors were busy staring at Mickey, they weren’t zooming in on Terry’s cold, dead eyes.  Anyone who saw that look would believe that this was a man who would hurt his own children. 

He looked like a man who would do pretty much anything, without the slightest hint of regret.  

Shanley was staring down at a legal pad, slight lines of tension creasing his broad face.  Mr. Milkovich,” he asked in a calmly inquisitive tone, “had your father ever seen you in the presence of Ian Gallagher, prior to the day in question?”

He nodded, “Yeah…”

“Outside of your sister’s presence?”

Mickey sighed inwardly.  He was tired and he already knew where this was going.  “No.”

“Had you ever discussed your sexuality with your father?”

Mickey bit back a grimace.  At the prosecution table, he saw Gracy stiffen slightly.  Shanley was playing games.  The question was the perfect bait for a sarcastic response about his father’s nature, but that wouldn’t fly with this approach.  Mickey fought down the need to swallow.  Fake bravado had been so second nature to him for so long.  Letting his true feelings show was unnerving as hell.

But it seemed to be working.  

“No,” he answered quietly, his voice quiet and honest.  He could see Shanley’s eyes darken, like a hunter who’s prey has sidestepped a trap.  

“I see.  So your father had no reason to suspect that you were gay?”

“No.”

“And no context for what he walked in on?”

Mickey could feel his skin crawling.  “I mean, we were having sex.  He has context…”

“Mr. Milkovich,” the bellicose asshole interrupted, taking a step forward, “You’re little boyfriend already tried to give me cute answers instead of honest ones.”  Gracy was on her feet in a second, her mouth open to object, but Shanley was already speaking. “Statement withdrawn,  your honor.”  There was a smugness to his tone that made Mickey’s defensive hackles rise, but he took a deep breath and kept himself in check.  

“Now, if you don’t mind keeping to the facts, did your father have any reason to assume that he was seeing a consensual sex act?  When he saw Mr. Gallagher holding you down?  When you’d deliberately deceived him about your sexuality for years?”

“Yes,” he stated, letting some of his conviction bleed into his voice.  He glanced up at the lawyer, who was looking annoyed again, but caught a glimpse of Terry’s shifting shoulders at the defense table.  His father was starting to lose his cool.  He had a bad feeling he knew what that was going to look like.  

At the corner of the jury box, Shanley was regrouping.  “So you’re telling me that when your father, who had no idea that you were a homosexual, found you naked and pinned down under another man in your living room, he should’ve just immediately realized he was witnessing a consensual sex act?”

The chair at the defense table squeaked, sending a sound like a shot echoing through the silent courtroom and straight up Mickey’s spine.  His eyes instinctively shifted towards the source of the sound and his mouth went dry.  He hadn’t been lying when he’d told Peterson he feared Terry and the look on the man’s face now was why.  The hate had been replaced by a cold decisiveness that was somehow even worse.  The last time Mickey had been the target of that particular look, he’d been pinned on his back in his childhood bed while his father shoved a gun in his mouth.  He’d been sure he was about to die then, and he didn’t feel much different now, but suddenly his own brand of cold pragmatism reared its head.  Four years ago, that same sensation had helped him muster a passiveness that had burned his soul but saved his life.  Now, it generated a risky but clear plan of action.  

“Yes,” he replied simply again, praying that Shanley stayed true to his asshole nature and asked the follow-up he was expecting. 

The asshole didn’t disappoint.  “Mr. Milkovich, you’re suggesting that your father should have just been able…”

Mickey tuned out the rest of Shanley’s words, concentrating on the grating cadence of the man’s voice.  He took a slow, even breath, in and out, and prayed that the court officers managed to intervene before Terry snapped his neck.

“...so please explain how your father should have been able to tell this was consensual.”

Mickey looked up, his eyes big in his face.  “He could see how much I liked it.”

There was a single moment of perfect stillness, as if every person in the courtroom had suddenly ceased to breath.  The stillness was broken, as Mickey had expected, by an animalistic roar.  This time, his father didn’t bother to flip the table or issue any threats.  He just threw himself across the space that separated him from his youngest son with his arms outstretched and murder in his eyes.  

Mickey shrank down in the chair, steeling himself for the first blow.  A voice in his head screamed that he couldn’t fight back, more out of years of entrenched conditioning at the hands of the madman barreling towards him than of concern for the persona he needed to maintain for the jury.  Whatever his mind was doing, though, his body had clearly decided it had taken enough fucking abuse from Terry Milkovich. 

He didn’t even realize he had moved until the warm splash of his father’s blood flew across his face.  He glanced up, following the length of his legs up to where they now dangled over the railing of the jury box.  The court officers were tackling a squealing, shrieking Terry to the floor but it wasn’t until they had him cuffed and were dragging him from the room that Mickey could see the damage he had inflicted.  Terry’s nose was shattered and gushing blood and his front teeth were just gone, swallowed or lying somewhere on the redsoaked marble of the courtroom floor.  Peterson was at his side, helping him slide his shaking legs back over the edge of the box and it was only then that he saw the backs of his shoes.  It was only then that he could remember instinctively driving the heels of both of his feet into his charging father’s face.

The courtroom was in a panic.  Officers were surrounding the shell-shocked jury but the gallery was in chaos.  The judge stood up, pounding his gavel and roaring for order, his echoing voice finally cutting through the melee.  People began to fall back into their seats as Shanley stood, pale and still against the jury box.

“Mr. Shanley,” the judge finally spit out as the roar in the room died to a murmur, “do you have any other questions for this witness?”

Shanley barely glanced up, his shoulders slumped and defeated.  “No, your honor.”

The judge let out a harrumphing breath.  “The witness is excused.”

*************************************************************************************

He was tired again.

The kitchen floor was dry and cool and he let his legs sprawl out across it.  They were bare up to his boxers, the dress pants and socks discarded somewhere in the living room.  Beside him, his phone buzzed again, shimmying across the linoleum.  He turned away, letting his head fall back against the cabinet and his eyes slide shut.  It would be Mandy.  Or Colin, who was probably still pissed that he’d taken the El home instead of grabbing a ride with him. Or Peterson, who tried to stop him as he dashed out of the courthouse.

Whatever. 

They all needed to fuck off.  He’d needed to get away, needed to curl up and hide again, needed external walls between him and the world, since his internal ones had crumbled to dust.  

The phone buzzed again.

He kicked it across the floor, watching it skid out of the kitchen and under his new couch.  The floor looked really fucking inviting.  He just wanted to let himself slide sideways, stretched out on the cool surface.  He wanted to sleep and sleep.  And why the fuck shouldn’t he?  He’d come back here for one reason; to keep everyone safe from the sick fuck that was Terry Milkovich.  But that was done. He’d given it his best shot.  Now couldn’t he just lay down and rest for a while?  It was better that way.  Mandy was good, Colin and Iggy were good.  They’d be fine now.  And Yev was doing great.  Svet would take care of him.  

And Ian…

The phone was buzzing again.  He could hear it, louder somehow, even from under the couch.  Well, fuck it.  He wasn’t answering.  He was lying down and going to sleep and they could all go to…

_ Bam Bam Bam _

The fuck…

There was a steady pounding coming from the front door of his little apartment, loud and insistent.  He glanced up.  The door was trembling with the force of the knocks.  His phone buzzed again, the sound echoing inside his head.  He forced himself to his feet, his vision tunneled and his body suddenly gangly and outside of his control.  He wanted to close his eyes but the banging didn’t seem like it was going to stop.  

He stumbled over to the door, shoving the loose sleeves of his dress shirt up over his hands as he fumbled for the lock.  He was going to punch Colin out if it was him on the other side.  Or Ron, if he was with Mandy.  The deadbolt kept slipping through his fingers and he almost swore out loud, but it finally caught and disengaged and he yanked the door open.

“Who the fuck…”

His words were cut off as mass of fury and red hair suddenly swept him up and off his feet.  He sucked in a deep breath but his body was thinking for itself again, going nearly limp in Ian’s arms as the other man literally carried him back into the little apartment and set him down on the couch.  Ian didn’t hesitate, dropping to a knee in front of him and cradling his face in one hand.  He didn’t move, didn’t resist at all, completely unnerved by the blend of panicked fury and careful assessment that flickered across the red head’s green eyes.

Ian’s hands withdrew suddenly and Mickey sank against the back of the couch as the taller man yanked out his phone and hit a button.  The look he shot Mickey was livid as he waited for the person at the other end to pick up.

“It’s been four fucking hours, Mick,” he spit at him, his green eyes burning, “Do you have any idea how bad...hello, Mands?” Ian stood up suddenly, heading toward the front window of the little apartment as Mickey sat limply on the couch.  “He’s here...he looks okay...I know, I’ll check...Mands, no, he’s...let me do it...Mands, I know, okay.  I’m not going anywhere...I will...I’ll call you tomorrow...Alright, bye.”

The red head dropped his phone on the tv stand, his back stiff as he stared out the window.  

“You scared the shit out of everybody,” he said quietly, turning slowly and leaning back against the window ledge.  

Mickey stared up at him, anger bleeding into confusion as Ian’s words sank in.  “Four hours?  Bullshit, I just got…”

“Four fucking hours,” Ian insisted, pushing off the windowsill and pacing the length of the room.  “Everyone’s been looking for you.  You wouldn’t answer your phone.  Mandy was losing her shit.”

Mandy was...fuck.  She was just pulling herself back together. 

“I’ll call her,” he promised.  His voice was small and broken again and he could feel a tremor in his hands.  He glanced up at the red haired man, who was now staring back at him anxiously.  “Sorry,” he said quietly.

“Jesus, Mick,” Ian muttered, more to himself as all traces of anger fled his face.  He took two steps forward and slid carefully onto the couch beside Mickey’s slumped form.  “Don’t be fucking sorry.   _ I’m  _ sorry, alright.  We were just scared.  Tony came down and said you weren’t here.”

Ian was shuffling around nervously beside him, unable to figure out what to do with his long arms and legs. Mickey thought back, sorting through the jumbled memories of the last few hours.  He’d spent them all sitting on the floor of the kitchen, of that he was pretty sure, but there had been a knocking at one point, hadn’t there?  Maybe, but fuck, he couldn’t remember for certain.

“Sorry,” he said again, and this time there was a thickness in his voice, “I needed to get inside.”

Beside him, Ian sucked in a long breath.  “That’s fine,” he replied quickly, his voice falling into a soothing, even tone.  “You’re safe.  Mands’ll tell everyone where you are.”

“Okay,” he answered stiffly, his voice cracking hard on the last syllable.  “Okay,” he repeated again, his voice stupid and weak.  What now?  What did he do now?  Suddenly, even the living room was too big and he threw his arms up in front of him, warding away some imaginary but imminent punch.  He was done now, right?  He’d done what they needed, sat on that stand and admitted all the shit he’d never wanted to say outloud and endured that fucking glare and realized just how much…

“He hates me,” the words tumbled out of his mouth as he turned to stare into Ian’s eyes.  “He fucking hates me so fucking much.  I can’t...I mean, I always knew it but...Jesus.” 

An hysterical giggle bubbled out of him but it devolved almost immediately into hiccuping sobs.  Beside him, Ian’s huge arms were reaching for him, pulling him in tight, keeping the huge room away.

“I hope he hates you,” the red haired man whispered against his ear, “I hope he hates you for not being the piece of shit he wanted you to be.”  He was being pulled now, lifted and curled up in Ian’s lap and he’d never cared less or wanted something more.  He turned and buried his face in the taller man’s chest, breathing him in as best he could through all the hysterical tears and snot.  He was soaking Ian’s shirt but if the other man noticed, he made no indication.  Instead, his leaned in until his lips found Mickey’s ear again.

“I hope he spends every fucking day that he’s locked up in that cell thinking about how much he hates you and how there isn’t a single fucking thing he can do about it.  I hope that’s what drives him insane in there.  I hope that’s what kills him in there, while you’re out here with the rest of us, living the life he doesn’t want you to have.”

Mickey choked back the first real sob, stopping it before it ripped its way out of his throat.  The second one was harder and by then a third, fourth, tenth maybe, were building up behind it.  He bit at his lip, fighting to keep them in, but they were clawing their way out.  His chest ached from the effort but Ian’s arms were still strong and tight around him and his words were still winding their way through to him.  

“Two way street, Mick.  It’s my turn to hold you until you’re strong again.”

The permission was the final crack in the thoroughly weakened dam of his emotions. Turning his face into Ian’s chest, he let himself cry.  He cried until his head pounded and his throat tightened up, until his eyes ran dry and all he could do was muster up a hiccuping sob.  

Ian’s shirt was really soaked now and Mickey could feel the wet fabric clinging to his cheek.  If the redhead noticed, he said nothing, keeping all of his attention focused on holding Mickey close.  His arms tightened fractionally when Mickey shifted against him, but they relaxed again quickly, one hand assuming a soothing circular pattern against his back.  

Mickey’s eyes were burning as they stared up, so swollen and tear raw he could barely see, but he managed to make out Ian’s face as the other man stared down at him.  

“I’m so fucking tired,” he whispered, his voice still thick and hoarse.

Ian only nodded, one hand creeping up to cradle the side of Mickey’s cheek. 

“So sleep,” he whispered, grazing his lips across Mickey’s forehead.  “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

When he finally woke, he had to peel his eyes open.  He was alone on the couch now, propped up on some pillows with the little throw blanket Mandy had insisted on tucked carefully around him.  The sky outside had gone completely dark and he could see the lit interior of the kitchen reflecting back at him.  Ian was in there, moving around while he threw together what had to be some kind of dinner.  He’d stripped off his soaked shirt at some point and Mickey let himself forget about his shit today for a moment and just admire the view. 

Fucker hadn’t gotten any less pretty over the last few years, that was for sure.

A small laugh escaped from him and he winced at the soreness in his chest and throat.

“You awake?”

He pushed himself up against the pillows, but Ian was already there, a glass of water in one hand and a box of tissues in the other.  He held out the water, taking a seat on the coffee table as Mickey drank.  There was concern on his face, but it was calm and inquisitive with no trace of the nervous fear that had dominated his every movement the last time they’d found themselves in this position.  Putting the empty glass down, Mickey grabbed at the box of tissues.

“You moming me?” he asked, offering a little smile.

Ian rolled his eyes but a tiny, matching grin graced his lips.  “Just let me take care of you and don’t bitch,” he said lightly, standing up and heading back to the kitchen. “I’m making spaghetti,” he called over his shoulder.  

Mickey wiped at his face and forced his legs over the side of the couch.  He was a fucking mess and tissues weren’t gonna cut it.  Struggling to his feet, he wound his way into the hallway, stopping by the kitchen door.

“Thanks,” he said, nodding towards the boiling pots, “How long til it’s ready?”

“Five minutes.” Ian peered at him assessingly.

“Okay,” he nodded, “I’m just gonna clean up.

Ian nodded and turned back to the stove.

He made his way to the bathroom but couldn’t quite get himself to shut the door.  He leaned heavy on the sink for a moment, trying to wrap his head around that.  He didn’t want a barrier between him and the Ian.  It wasn’t too hard to figure that out.  The implications of that though…

Fuck…

He splashed cold water on his face until the red in his eyes started to fade to pink and the hot, puffy skin around them shrunk down a bit.  He turned and leaned against the vanity, staring down as he unclenched his hands and forced them to lay open and relaxed against his legs.   He breathed, in and out, in and out, until the raw pain in his chest started to loosen.  He felt sore all over, but better, his mind clearer now.  

He could see Ian’s shadow moving around the kitchen as he put the rest of their dinner together.  He stared down at his bare feet for a moment.  Was this safe?  Were they doing this too fast again?

No, fuck it.  Sliding off the counter, he pulled off the wrinkled mess of a dress shirt and headed towards his room.  He slipped on clean, white undershirt and headed back towards the kitchen, only to double back and grab a second one.  Who was he kidding?  He already knew exactly how this was going to go.  He was going to go back in there and eat the dinner Ian cooked.  He was going to sit with Ian, talk to Ian, let Ian hold him.  

He was going to trust Ian.

“You want this?” He asked, holding out the spare shirt to the redhead as he came back into the kitchen.  

Glancing over his shoulder, Ian smiled.  “Yeah, thanks.  Mine was all wet so…” he gestured down at his bare chest.  “Didn’t want to go rooting through your shit while you were sleeping.”

Mickey nodded and handed the shirt off. “How long was I out?” he asked, grabbing some bowls down from the counter.  Ian took them from him and started spooning up the spaghetti.  

“You mean your nap or your disappearing act from earlier?”

He glanced up at those words but there was no anger in Ian’s face, only hints of worry around his eyes.  

“Both, I guess,” he answered, rooting around for some forks.  “You said four hours.”

Ian nodded.  “Colin and Peterson both called me as soon as you took off.”

“Colin has your number?

“Got it from Mandy. Why?”

“I don’t know.  Just, weird little family we have now.”

Ian smiled.  “Anyway, you weren’t picking up.”

“I was here.  I heard Tony knocking but I couldn’t really put it together in my head.” He took the bowl Ian offered and slid down to sit at the tiny kitchen table.  “I kind of freaked out after, you know.”

Ian nodded, taking a seat across from him.  “I get it.”

“Shouldn’t of scared Mands though.”

“She’s okay.  Ron’s with her.  And she knows I’m with you.”

“You planning on sticking around?”

“You planning on letting me?”

Their eyes met across the table.  

“I don’t wanna get in your…”

“Mick?”

“Yeah?”

“The only way I’m leaving is if you actually tell me to get the fuck out. You gonna tell me to get the fuck out?”

The green eyes turned serious, searching.  Mickey stared back, feeling the weight of his next words.

“I’m not gonna tell you to leave.”

“Good,” Ian breathed out, relief clear in his voice, “Cause I want to stay.”  He leaned forward and spooned up some spaghetti, “and to answer your other question, about an hour and a half.  Which means you probably need more sleep.”

“Damn, you really are moming me,” Mickey snorted, but the feeling was warm and good inside him.

“If you mean that I’m feeding you and making you sleep, then sure.  I call it loving you but you can call it whatever you want.”  He took another bite and smirked.

Mickey glanced down, smiling into his bowl at the warm rush that flowed through him at those words.  “I gotta sleep.  Every part of me fucking hurts.  It’s like I sprinted from the cops or some shit but I didn’t do anything.”

“It’s mental exhaustion, if I had to guess,” Ian said, standing up and clearing the bowls.  Mickey sat back and watched him as he moved around the kitchen.  “You’ve earned the right.  Peterson told me you kicked that fucker in the face.  Broke his fucking nose.”  He put some dish soap in the pot and set it to soak.  

Mickey nodded.  “Good.”

“Fuck, yeah,” Ian smiled at him, “And for that you deserve a good night sleep.”  He glanced back at him, “I can crash on the couch…”

“You ain’t sleeping on the fucking couch,” Mickey spit out, the words leaving his mouth before he could think about their implications.  Ian turned slowly, meeting his eyes, and quirked an eyebrow.  “I mean, I’m tired as hell.  I need to fucking sleep.  But you can crash in my bed.  That’s fine.”  He tried to look away, feeling his face pink slightly, but Ian chased his gaze.

“Good,” the redhead said, his eyes careful and probing, “Let’s do that.  Let’s get some sleep.”

There’d been a time in his life when he and Ian had shared a bed, their own bed, but that had been years ago.  The last time they’d slept side by side, it was in the folded down back of a Ford station wagon.  In one, they’d had space but no privacy, in the other, privacy but no fucking space.  And now, with all the space and all the privacy they ever could’ve wanted, all he could think about was sleep.

Ian had slid into bed behind him, and Mickey hadn’t said a word; just let the redhead place himself between Mickey and the door.  Mickey had faced the wall at first, trying not to think too hard about Ian lying only inches away from him, but he could sense Ian’s green gaze.

“I can fucking feel you looking at me.” he grumbled, smiling a little when Ian huffed out a quiet laugh behind him. Rolling onto his side, he met the redhead’s eyes. “I thought you wanted me to sleep.”

“I do,” Ian insisted, raising his head up off the pillow slightly.  

“Then stop staring, you freak.  I can’t sleep when you do that.”

Ian’s next laugh was louder.  “Bullshit.  Do you know how much time I’ve spent staring at you while you slept?”

Mickey smiled, but he could feel that it was strained.  He did remember that.  It had been when Ian was manic as fuck.  

“Are you alright?” Mickey heard himself asking.  

Ian’s gaze faltered a bit and he let his head rest back against the pillow.  “I’m good.” he answered, too quickly, ducking his head slightly.  Mickey waited, biting his lip to hold back his voice as Ian wrestled inside himself.  Reaching over, he wound their fingers together between their pillows.  Ian squeezed back tightly, gratefully, and raised his eyes. “I’m taking care of myself okay.  You don’t have to worry about me.”

“I’m always gonna worry.”

“Why?”

“Cause I fucking love you.”

Ian’s fingers curled even tighter, squeezing his hand until it was almost painful, but Mickey couldn’t bring himself to draw away.  He squeezed back, keeping his eyes fixed on green in the darkness.  

“I’ll be better as soon as Terry’s ass is locked up,” Ian muttered, loosening his grip and running a thumb lightly over Mickey’s fingers, “When he’s gone, when I know you’re safe; Mandy, Yev, everyone in our families.  Then, I’ll really be good.”

“It’ll be nice when our biggest parent issue is your fucking mom,” Mickey said lightly, but the humor in his tone died away when he saw the stricken look on Ian’s face.  “What?” he demanded carefully, propping himself up on an elbow and gripping Ian’s fingers tightly.

“She’s dead.”

“Your mom?”

“Yeah.  Mandy didn’t tell you?”

“Fuck.  No.  I don’t know when she would’ve...fuck, when?”

Ian sighed, tugging at his fingers until he lay back down against the pillow.  Reaching over him with his other arm, Ian pinched gently at the back of his neck, rubbing in soothing concentric circles.  “She had a brain aneurysm.  She died while I was with you in Texas.”

It took Mickey a moment to process the words, to try to rear back in shame, but Ian had already shifted, holding tight to him and fighting to capture his gaze.  

“Don’t do that,” he whispered plaintively, his huge hand warm and gentle against Mickey’s skull, “It wouldn’t have made any fucking difference if I was there.  She didn’t OD or any shit.  She had a weak artery in her brain and it fucking burst.”

Mickey let himself be pulled back down, but he couldn’t manage to meet Ian’s eyes.  

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“You don’t have to be.  You know, the worst things I ever said to you, I said when I made the mistake of letting her inside my head.  She was dangerous,” Ian sighed, shifting closer and sliding his palm up to cup Mickey’s cheek. “I’m not saying that the shit I said wasn’t my fault.  I’m not saying I’m glad she’s dead.  I’m not.  But I am glad that she can’t poison my thoughts anymore.”

Ian pulled his left hand back but kept their other fingers interlocked as he rolled on his back and reached for his phone.

“You should sleep.” he stated, rolling back and resuming the gentle massage of Mickey’s neck.  Mickey leaned  into the movement unconsciously, feeling the built up stress of his shit day melt away.  His eyes, already heavy, felt leaden, and they dropped closed as the tension bled out of him.  

“You, too.” he mumbled but his breath was already deepening and evening.  By the time Ian opened his mouth to respond, Mickey was already asleep.

*************************************************************************************

“Tyvek is spelled with a y, right?’

Mickey swung his head around,turning away from the roof shingles he was examining.  Behind him, Ian had pulled his phone out and was texting away.

“What are you doing?”

Ian glanced up.  “I’m making a list of all this shit.  So you don’t have to keep it all straight in your head.” He held the screen up.

Mickey smiled.  “When did you turn in Mr. fucking Organization?”

Ian just shrugged.  “It helps.”

Mickey had slept like the dead the night before and it was only the scent of eggs and bacon that had finally pulled him back into the realm of the living.  He’d shot a quick text off to Mandy to let her know he was fine and then let Ian feed him.

“You sticking around?” he’d asked as Ian slid into the seat across from him again.

“Got nothing I need to do,” the redhead had replied immediately, “You mind?”

“Nah,” Mickey, keeping his voice light, though the word had felt heavy with significance.

“Cool,” Ian had replied, just as lightly.

And they’d eaten their eggs and that had been that. 

They’d hung out around the apartment, Ian stealing some clothes as they lounged on the couch, watching the first two  _ Harry Potter _ films from the box set Mandy had bought while Mickey bitched about the differences between the movies and the books.  

Ian had dragged him out of the house after lunch, insisting that he needed some clean clothes.  Mickey had recognized the ploy for what it was but went along with it willingly.  He didn’t want to go back into hiding, not when he was finally getting better.  

He wasn’t going to let Terry score anymore points on him.

The Gallagher house had received a few facelifts on the inside, too.  There were new appliances in the kitchen and fresh paint and spackle in the little dining room.  He’d pendulumned between nostalgia and a muted pain as he stood in the upstairs hallway, letting Ian throw some shit in a bag.  The redhead had looked like he was planning on spending another night.  Mickey had kept his mouth shut.

He wasn’t about to complain. 

It was on the El ride back that Ian had gotten him talking about the co-op, a topic that both distracted and bolstered him.  Once back, Ian had thrown on a change of clothes and dragged him all over the large building so he could explain all of the projects he had planned.  And now they were here, looking at the roof.

And Ian was taking notes.  

“You need a plan,” he said, still pecking away at his phone screen.  He looked up suddenly, nervous tension on his face as he caught Mickey’s gaze.  “Sorry,” he spit out nervously, “I’m not trying to tell you how to do your fucking job…”

Mickey pushed himself off the wall he’d been leaning against and took two steps forward, stopping inches from Ian’s chest. 

“Stop.”

“I will.”

“No, Ian.  Stop this.  Stop fucking eggshelling around me.  You can tell what you think.  I’ll listen.”

He held Ian’s gaze as the other man studied his face, the tension receding as he continued to stare.  “Okay,” he said finally, his tone light with relief, “So, I’m just writing down what you’ve been saying.  You want to do the roof first, right?”

Mickey smiled.  “Yeah, before the weather goes to shit.”

“Okay, so let me write this down.  Make a plan.”  He stared into Mickey’s eyes, eager and beseeching, until Mickey couldn’t help but grin and duck his head.

“Fine, you pushy bitch.”

Ian smirked.  “Thank you,” he murmured, stretching out the words as he turned to look at the roof around them.  Mickey watched him walk across the surface, studying all the areas he’d already pointed to. His phone buzzed with a list of supplies.  

He couldn’t help but smile.  

*************************************************************************************

“No!  Sit the fuck down!  I’m fucking cooking dinner!”

Mickey planted a hand on Ian’s chest, patently ignoring the firm muscle underneath the thin t-shirt as he pushed the redhead back into a kitchen chair.  Ian went willingly, looking up at him through careful eyes.

“I don’t mind…”

“I mind,” Mickey spit out, regretting it immediately when he saw the look on Ian’s face. “No, no, man, that’s not what I meant.” He turned away towards the counter, gripping the edge in frustration, “I don’t mind you cooking for me.  But I need to be able to do it, too.  I can’t fucking fall apart.  I need to, like, maintain my progress or some shit.”

He glanced over his shoulder, afraid of what he might see, but Ian’s face was open and understanding and relief immediately flooded him.  He turned and leaned against the counter.

“Good idea.”  The redhead replied, “What are you making?”

“Tuna melts?” he offered lamely.

“Sounds good to me.”

Mickey busied himself around the kitchen, conscious of Ian’s eyes on him.  What did the other man even see when he looked at him?  Once, Ian had known every inch of his body as well as his own.  Lately, though, Mickey felt like he was as much as stranger in his own skin.  It was hard to imagine that he didn’t appear a complete stranger to his ex-lover, and yet, when Ian looked at him, he always felt familiar and grounded.

“When’s your next shift?”

“Tomorrow at two.  I’m two to two for the next three nights.” Ian studied his face carefully as he said those words.  Mickey nodded and turned back towards the stove.

“I gotta handle this shit,”he said as he flipped the sandwiches on the griddle Mandy had purchased for two bucks.  “I’m not trying to be an asshole when I say this, but I can’t get too complacent or shit.” He hung his head.  “I mean, I can’t just rely on you.”

There was quiet behind him but when he forced himself to turn and face Ian, the redhead only looked considering.

“I get that,” he said evenly, “What do you need me to do?” He pushed himself up a bit and glanced around the apartment.  “I can sleep on the couch tonight.”

Mickey scoffed.  “I don’t want to make you do that.”

“Yeah, and I really don’t want to.  I want to sleep with you.  But fuck it, Mickey, it’s not about what I want.  It’s not even about what you want.  It’s about what you need and if you need to feel like you can sleep alone without being afraid, then I’ll help with that.  But we should try it in steps.  I’ll still be here but not right next to you.  It makes sense.”

It made sense.  Yeah, it made sense.  It made sense while they sat down and ate their dinner, while Ian told him stories of some of his craziest calls and generally put him at ease.  It made sense as they hung out on the couch watching  _ Animal Planet.   _ It even made sense as he’d tossed Ian some blankets and an extra pillow and made his way back to his room alone.

It stopped making sense around 12:30, as he rolled over in his bed and stared through the doorway he’d deliberately left open.  A horrible, gnawing tension had settled over him as he lay in the dark, his brain racing and his stomach cramping with nerves.  He sat up as silently as he could, furiously wiping frustrated tears from the corners of his eyes.  Why the hell was this happening?

No, no, fuck, who was he bullshitting here?  He was afraid.  That’s why it was happening.  He was scared of the space around him, of being alone with his thoughts, of confronting the memory of the hate his own father felt for him.  He was scared and the feeling wasn’t going away.  

His foot found the floor and he moved silently towards the door.  The living room was dark and still, Ian invisible behind the back of the couch.  He slipped quietly down the little hall and into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him and flipping on the light. He let the water run for a moment, the steady hum breaking up the stultifying silence.  

What the hell was he doing?  Taking a step forward, he splashed some of the water into his face and gripped the edge of the counter.  The fuck.  Wasn’t it just last night that he was standing in this same spot, deciding he could trust Ian?  He was scared of that, too.  Not of Ian, but of himself, of his inability to trust, to let go of the bullshit.

What if he could never get Terry out of his head?

The door creaked slightly as he opened it, creeping back into the darkness.  He headed up the hallway but a prickling sensation suddenly ran up his spine and he paused.  If he looked behind him, he’d be able to see through the kitchen, right into the living room.  

He wasn’t surprised by what he saw when he turned toward the front room.  He’d felt Ian’s eyes on him immediately.  They were wide and worried as they met his over the back of the couch.  

They gazed at each other through the dim illumination of moonlight.  The prickle at Mickey’s neck didn’t recede.  It spread instead, running down over his arms and legs and settling in his stomach.  It pulled with a nearly magnetic force, itching to drag him closer to the couch and the green eyes.  Mickey could feel his chin wavering like a fucking little kid, but he was helpless to stop it, or the words that came tumbling out of his mouth.

“I don’t know how to get him out of my head.”

Ian pushed up on his knees, keeping his eyes firmly on Mickey’s, and leaned over the back of the couch.  He was quiet but his gaze was bright with determined conviction and Mickey realized immediately that while he might be lost on how to free himself from his father’s hold, Ian had a plan.  

The redhead never said a word. 

He just held out his hand.

It never even occurred to him to reject the offer.  Instead, he took three long strides forward, his eyes still locked on Ian’s.  The taller man reached out to meet him, threading their fingers together as he pulled Mickey around the edge of the couch and into his arms.  Mickey looped his hands up and around Ian’s neck, letting his body go limp, letting Ian press them close and hold them tight.  The still-familiar warmth of the redhead’s skin permeated the thin barrier of cotton between them.  Mickey nuzzled into the warmth, his fingers questing, fanning out and slipping inside the collar of Ian’s shirt.  Along his lower back, he could feel other hands bunching the material, sliding up over his own skin.  

Mickey didn’t think.  He just raised his arms, letting Ian strip away his annoying fucking shirt and grappling with the hem of Ian’s own until the redhead flung that one away as well.  Then there were hands on his arms, warm palms planning across his upper back, and his own fingers were sliding up a soft expanse of skin turned hot and winding into red tresses.  

He exhaled, his cheek pressed against Ian’s collarbone, and felt the redhead’s own breath hitch in return.  How long since they’d last done this, since they’d last held each other, skin to skin?  It had been years, back before Ian’s little joyride with Yev.  Mickey closed his eyes, pressing close to the warm body in front of him as Ian wrapped strong arms tight around him.  The seconds ticked by as they relaxed into each other, as they breathed in tandem and his panic and despair melted away.

A little shiver ran over him, starting in his heart and racing to his extremities.  He tensed at the sensation and the arms about him tightened fractionally, as if they’d both suddenly realized where they were.

And what they were doing.  

Mickey wasn’t in control, hadn’t been since he let Ian have his hand.  It was the redhead and his own racing emotions that were running the show.  It was Ian who brought a huge hand up to cradle the back of his head.  It wasn’t his head but his wildly pounding heart that pushed him to press a kiss against the side of Ian’s throat.

Ian drew in a sharp breath.  “Mick?” he bit out, his voice raw.  The hand at the back of Mickey’s head slid around, cupping his cheek and drawing his gaze up to meet green eyes.  “I don’t...not until you trust me.”

A little laugh tore out of Mickey’s throat, but it wasn’t harsh or bitter.  “Look at us,” he demanded lightly, pressing his cheek against Ian’s huge hand, “Do you think we’d be here if I didn’t fucking trust you?”

He held Ian’s gaze as the other man studied him, his green eyes full of hopeful assessment.  

“I want…”

“I know.”

“Okay, but not because...fuck…”

“Ian!” Mickey leaned forward, resting their foreheads together, “I need him out of my head.  Just help me push him out.”

“I will,”  Ian’s other hand flew up, cupping his face on both sides as they stared into each other’s eyes.  “He never wants us to touch each other again but we’re touching each other now, so fuck him.  And we’re going to forget about him right now because it’s not fucking about him.  We touch each other because we want to, because we love touching each other.” 

He leaned forward, pulling their mouths together.  It was soft but firm, more insistent than the gentle, promising brush of lips they’d shared on Kev’s back stairs.  Ian’s hands wandered softly over his cheeks, holding him close as he pressed against his lips.  Mickey could barely think, his body alight with the kiss and the force of the words.  

He caught his breath as Ian pulled back, the large hands sliding down to cup his face firmly.  “Too many fucking people have had a fucking say for too long.  We’re done with that shit.” His hand slid up, and Mickey could feel it carding through his hair and settling on the back of his neck.  Ian’s eyes were bright, not manic, but wild with determined purpose.  “I fucking love you.  You fucking love me.  That’s why we touch each other.  That’s it.”

“That’s it?

“That’s fucking it.”

Mickey nodded, “Alright,” he whispered against  Ian’s lips, “then fucking touch me.”

He wasn’t really sure how they got from the couch to the middle of his bed.  He knew there’d been hands and tongues and movement but he barely remembered his feet touching the floor.  What he was aware of was Ian spilling him across the bed, then chasing him down.  Strong legs were sliding up between his, all firm muscle and determination. The green fire was still burning bright in Ian’s eyes and Mickey felt himself sink into them, drowning in the color and the heat.  The bed was soft beneath his back and he let himself be spread out as Ian pressed himself flush against every inch of his bare skin.

They clung for a moment, Mickey’s arms and legs moving on their own to slide up and around Ian’s back.  Ian bore down in response, huge hands reaching up, caging Mickey’s face between strong arms as he gripped the top of the mattress for leverage.  Mickey stared up as Ian’s fire tinged eyes slid closed and his mouth opened and a low, thick pant escaped.

“Uuhhghh...fuck…” and warm breath ghosted across Mickey’s face.

When Ian opened his eyes again, they had changed.  They had focused and calmned and at first, Mickey wasn’t sure what to make of it.  The redhead had reared back, pushing himself up to knees, but the look on his face now was nothing but serene relief.

Ian trapped him with his gaze.  Reached down with one of his large hands, he let his knuckles graze over the planes of Mickey’s stomach, his eyes lighting and a grin pulling at his lips when Mickey jumped.  He flipped his hand, fingertips skimming over warm skin until he curved his hands around Mickey’s shoulder.  

“Like that?” he whispered, “You want me to touch you like that?”

Mickey inhaled deeply, clamping down on a groan that threatened to escape his throat.  His body was tensing, his skin alight with nerve endings as Ian traced his fingertips everywhere.  Fuck this, they could play games later.  Right now, he needed Ian inside him, needed him like he needed fucking air.  His hands reached up, his palms seeking warm skin but Ian was too quick, encircling his wrists and guiding them, gently but insistently, down to the bed.  

“Stay there,” he ordered, letting go and reaching toward the headboard.  Mickey watched as he grabbed one of the pillows and dragged it close, cradling the back of his head as he slid it under him and laid him back down.   He seized Mickey’s wrists again, soft and insistent, and slid them beneath the pillow, curling the tattooed fingertips around the edge.

Mickey stared up at him, and a million smartass comments died in his throat as he took in Ian’s eyes.   The fire was back but it was brighter this time, flecked with hints of mirth and something else that Mickey might’ve called adoration if he was a fucking Hallmark card.  Ian loomed over him, his whole body radiating heat as he settled down, pressing Mickey’s legs back apart and letting the warm, hard planes of his stomach and chest come back down to rest against Mickey’s skin.  

His breath caught.  It choked off as the familiar warmth and weight covered him.  The sound drew a sweetly satisfied little grin across Ian’s lips.  Mickey was tempted to reach up and brush it away but he couldn’t.  Ian wanted him to hold onto the pillow.  So instead he lifted his head up, bringing his mouth right up to Ian’s.

And waited.

The first touch of Ian’s lips against his was light, not teasing but gentle, careful, almost fucking reverent.  Ian fixed his gaze on his, refusing to look away as he let their mouths wander over each other, as the tender, delicate press of lips upon lips lit them on fire.  Ian pressed a soft peck to his mouth, then shifted suddenly, ducking his head and chasing Mickey’s pulse points, nuzzling into his throat and pressing light kisses and nips along the tendons of his neck.  Mickey’s head jerked back, giving the redhead free access as he pressed his face into the crevice of Mickey’s collarbone and breathed in his sweat and need.  

Ian lingered there for a moment, seemingly content to just inhale his scent.  The thought made Mickey burn, made the shards of a long ago memory,  _ I like how he smells,  _ crystallize in the forefront of his mind.  Ian behind him, beside him, in front of him, always, always burying his face against his throat.

Because  _ I like how he smells  _ was how Ian first said  _ I love you _ and when he re-examined their history through this lens, he realized that Ian had told him he loved him a hell of a lot.  

The taller man was shifting again, his mouth trailing open, gentle kisses across Mickey’s chest, the plane of his sternum, the ridges of his ribs.  Mickey let his head fall back prone against the pillow, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as his breath hitched.  His skin was trembling and his hands were gripped like vices around the soft cotton bunched in their grasp.  

But Ian still wasn’t done.  He’d shifted down between his thighs, nosing at his rock hard cock through the thin material of his boxers.  The loose nylon that he’d worn comfortably all day was suddenly tight and constrictive, but Mickey was helpless to do anything about it.  It was as if his arms had been paralyzed when Ian trapped them under the pillow.  He was at the redhead’s fucking mercy. 

He jumped slightly, his stomach and cock both twitching as huge, warm hands ran up the back of thighs, cupping his ass and squeezing gently.  Ian was pressing lingering kisses through the material, his lips skimming the base of his shaft, and Mickey wanted the fucking boxers gone.  Ian seemed to be feeling merciful though, thank fuck, and the stupid barrier was dragged down and flung away as Ian found his feet at the edge of the bed.

They engaged in a quick but fraught staring contest as Ian stood over him.  He was still splayed on his back across the bed, still pinned down by the pillow and the burn in Ian’s eyes.  He didn’t waver under the heavy gaze. He had a metric fuck-ton of inhibitions but most of the sexual ones had been stripped away a long ass time ago by the man who was now towering before him.

His sideways glance broke the strange trance-like staredown but it was Ian who followed his gaze towards the drawer of the bedside table, flinging it open and pulling out the bottle of  lube, his mouth sporting a triumphant smirk as he strode back to stand at the edge of the bed.  With the slightest hint of shyness, he worked the waistband of his briefs down over his hips, kicking them backwards as they fell to the floor.

Mickey felt his mouth run dry at the sight, his stomach muscles twisting tight as his whole body seemed to reach toward the warm, hard planes that loomed over him.  The last niggling fingers of doubt launched a final assault on his senses, but he stared into Ian’s eyes and stomped them down to dust.  He’d already let Ian back inside his heart, mind, and soul.  Letting him back inside his body was only the final steps of the journey he’d already traveled. 

He kept his eyes locked on Ian’s.  He kept his hands where the redhead had placed them.  But he let one foot slide off the sheet and slowly curl around a firm thigh.

“C’mere,” he whispered.

The bottle landed next to his head as Ian went down on his knees on the floor, dropping out of Mickey’s sight as he grasped the foot.  Mickey sighed into the sensation as hot kisses trailed their way up the inseam of his calf, over his knee.  His head fell back and he bit back a moan as Ian climbed up and over him, sucking a bruise into his inner thigh.  Wide, strong shoulders were pushing his legs apart and leaving him bare and open.  

He clung to the pillow and shut his eyes.  It was all he could do.

Ian was mouthing at his hipbone and the V of his stomach then sliding down to run his tongue up the length of his shaft, nipping at the edge of the swollen head.  Mickey groaned, his whole body arching up at the sensation but he somehow managed to keep his hands where they’d been put.  Ian had his thighs pinned wide but his knees were bending, wrapping his calves around and over the redhead’s broad shoulders, pulling the taller man in closer.  Filthy sounds and half spoken profanity was pouring in a whisper from his lips.  He felt drunk on want already, but Ian wasn’t finished yet.

The redhead had moved lower again, mouth at the swollen base of his cock, over the heated skin of his sack.  He keened and wailed when Ian sucked a bruise into the tender skin of his perineum.  But through it all, he kept his hands where Ian had placed them. 

Until Ian spread him open and pressed a deep, open kiss to his furl.

And he was done.  His conscious mind, logic, and vocabulary were sucked under by a wave of emotion and need.  Broken, pleading half-words and pants fell from his lips as his left arm yanked itself unbidden from beneath the pillow and his hand scrabbled desperately against Ian’s shoulders.  The redhead wasn’t arguing.  He surged up over him, letting their bodies press hot against each other as he threaded his long fingers through Mickey’s own.  He brought their linked arms back up over Mickey’s head, bracing his weight as his other hand cradled Mickey’s cheek.

“S’alright,” he insisted, “I’ve got you.” but his voice sounded wrecked even to Mickey’s lust drunk ears and the desperate grinding of his hips against Mickey’s denoted his fraying control.  He released Mickey’s cheek, scrabbling for the bottle he’d chucked on the bed, panting as Mickey licked and kissed his swollen lips. 

Mickey’s entire body seized when Ian pressed the first finger inside him.  His mind was already addled with need and his body needed no encouragement.  He pushed back against the digit, his hips thrusting desperately as his calves and ankles caged Ian’s hips.  He was mindless now, completely in the thrall of the potent combination of love and lust.  Ian was still fighting for some semblance of control, slipping a second finger inside him, stroking and probing and preparing the way.

It was taking too long.  He needed more.  He squeezed Ian’s hand, forcing his eyes open to meet his lover’s face.

“Please,” he begged, choking out the word as he pushed back against the intruding fingers, desperate to drive them deeper inside him.  Above him, Ian slammed his eyes shut for a moment, the last remnant of control nearly gone.

“Almost,” he panted, pressing a kiss to Mickey’s lips.  “One more.  Don’t...I can’t fucking hurt you.” 

The slight tinge of fear in Ian’s voice managed to pierce the haze in Mickey’s head.  He took two deep breaths, squeezed Ian’s hand, and forced himself to calm, to focus on the fullness inside him as Ian slipped a third finger in.  He groaned but kept his eyes fixed on the green gaze above him as Ian worked him open.

“I’m good,” he panted finally, unable to stand another second, “I promise...please...fucking please…”

He felt the sudden emptiness of Ian’s withdrawal, vaguely heard the wet, heavy sound of him slicking the full length of his cock, yet he still lost his breath when Ian pressed against him, pushing steady and hard until the thick head had breached the little ring of muscles and slipped inside.

His eyes slammed shut but he could still feel Ian right above him, pressing them forehead to forehead as he slid deeper and deeper inside.  Their wild heartbeats had still managed to sync and Ian muttered a breathy groan as the warm weight of his sack had finally brushed against Mickey’s ass. 

“Fuck,” he’s choked out, his voice raw and desperate, “Oh fuck, Mick…”

But Mickey couldn’t speak.  He needed Ian to fuck him until he had no words, until every thought was driven out of his head, until his whole word was the feel of Ian’s cock inside him  and the taste of his lips on his mouth.  His ankles crossed at the small of Ian’s back, tugging forward.  The sudden movement pulled Ian slightly deeper, but the small shift was all that was needed for the redhead’s fragile control to finally snap.

He thrust hard, pulling a long, desperate keen out of Mickey’s throat.  His chest and stomach were pressed tight against Mickey’s but his knees were spread across the mattress, pressing Mickey’s thighs so wide it might have hurt if Mickey had been capable of such thoughts, if his entire mind wasn’t fixed on how deep Ian was inside of him.  Their hands were still intertwined but Mickey’s other arm had finally rebelled, his hand clawing desperately at his lover’s back.  Ian’s own arm was now wrapped under his shoulders, pinning them together as his hips continued to frantically pummel Mickey’s body.  

Mickey had no mind left.  Everything was Ian; Ian cradling him close, Ian inside him, Ian rubbing against his throbbing cock.  Whatever self control Mickey might have possessed before this began, it was gone now.   He was clinging to Ian, bearing down against his shaft, mindlessly meeting him thrust for thrust.   He was crying out, babbling nonsense against Ian’s collarbone as his cock wept droplets of pre-cum against their stomachs.

He came with little warning, the unbearable pressure in his balls suddenly crescendoing with such force that his back arched up off the bed even beneath the full weight of a lust crazed Ian Gallagher.  His free hand clawed desperately at the redhead’s back but if Ian noticed, he didn’t stop.  Instead, his thrusts became even harder and more erratic, his own moans more desperate as he chased his own pleasure.  Mickey’s whole body was sensitized but he couldn’t seem to stop rutting frantically against Ian’s skin as the redhead panted and cried out and finally tensed, filling him with heat.

They came down from the high slowly and incompletely, their heartbeats powerful and meshed as one.  Mickey watched, still half dazed, as Ian breathed in long, deep breaths, pausing every few moments to lick kisses into his mouth or nuzzle his neck.  The redhead made no move to leave the crux of Mickey’s thighs, letting himself sink down and pillow on his lover’s chest.  His breath was hot against Mickey’s skin, broken by the occasional “fu...fuck…” as Ian fought to regain control.

Mickey’s hands were free, roaming over Ian’s shoulder and running through his sweaty hair.  He was conscious enough now to consider their positions, the way his legs were spread wide and trapped by Ian’s hips, the way Ian’s softening cock was still inside him.  He could ask Ian to move, if he wanted.  He could flip him over on his back and curl up beside him.  Ian was heavy on him, and each breath Mickey took was a reminder of that weight, that physical presence.  There was nothing wrong with asking him to shift over.

Mickey caught the snort before it tore out of him.  Who the fuck was he kidding?  He was breathing hard, panting with pleasure, but his hand were already roaming over Ian’s back and ass.  His hips were already twitching gently, seeking stimulation from the perfect cock that was still inside him.  He didn’t want Ian to move.  He wanted him to stay exactly where he was until he was hard and needy and ready to fuck him again.

He felt the rumble of Ian’s low laughter in his chest and stomach before he even heard it.  The redhead lifted his head, chasing down Mickey’s lips and slipping a tongue into the warmth of his mouth.  They kissed, long and dirty and leisurely as long minutes passed them by.  

“I feel you,” Ian said, drawing back for a moment to stare into Mickey’s eyes.  His own hips gave an insistent thrust and Mickey could feel both their cocks stirring back to life.  “I know what you want.”

“Fuck you,” Mickey spit out, but his voice was too wrecked with lust to have any effect.  He ducked his head, and his voice turned sheepish. “You want it too.”

Ian’s answer was a quick thrust of his rapidly hardening dick.  His hand crept up, fingers knotting in Mickey’s hair, tugging his head back gently but insistently. Mickey clung to Ian’s wide shoulders, his breath hitching again as the redhead licked long, warm stripes up his throat.

“Of course I fucking want it,” he whispered fiercely against Mickey’s ear, before unceremoniously pulling out of him and flipping him onto his stomach.

Mickey’s cry of protest was choked off as Ian sealed their lips together, pulling his head around so he could find his mouth.  His knees were moving again, pressing Mickey’s thighs high and apart as he pinned his torso flat to the bed. Then Ian was leaning over him, the weight of his dick heavy between Mickey’s ass cheeks.  

“Shhhhhh…” he whispered as he broke the kiss and skimmed his lips across Mickey’s shoulders to the shell of one ear.  “I know we’re not done.  Fuck, we’re just getting started.” He punctuated that statement by thrusting lightly and Mickey cried out and pushed back as the head of Ian’s cock caught on his sensitive rim.  He felt Ian smile against his cheek.  “Fuck, Mick, like I could ever not want it.  Do you know how bad I am at this?  At being away from you?  I can’t fucking stand it.” He punctuated each sentence with a thrust, finally catching on the last one, as the head of his shaft slipped back inside Mickey.

They froze, moans flying from both their mouths as they both pushed back against the sensation, pushing Ian in further.  The redhead groaned and his fingers ran up Mickey’s arms, settling over the back of his hands and squeezing tight.  

“Do you want me deeper,” he whispered teasingly against the back of Mickey’s neck. 

Mickey could feel his thoughts starting to fray again as Ian pressed back inside of him.  He buried his face in the soft sheet, letting his high pitched cries loose into the mattress.

“Fuck…”he choked out, “Yes, you asshole.” He pushed back hard, but Ian was already reading his mind.

It was slower this time, less frantic.  The warm lips on his mouth and throat were more leisurely and exploratory.  Ian held him tight, pinned and secure, rolling his hips down into him.  He had spread himself flush across Mickey’s back, as if any inch of space was too much.  His lips were resting against Mickey’s ear, letting him hear the filthy moans that poured from his mouth with each thrust.

It was slower and gentler, but still, it didn’t take long for Mickey’s cock to start throbbing against the mattress.  He cried out as he rutted against the soft surface, as Ian targeted his prostate with laser-like focus.  He was close again, so close that his words were becoming pleasure drenched babbles.

“This isn’t it,”Ian whispered into his ear,  tightening his fingers around Mickey’s hands and angling each of his thrusts.  “We’re still not fucking done.”  Mickey would’ve laughed if he could.  As if that wasn’t fucking obvious.  He could feel a mind melting orgasm building in his cock and even at that moment, he could tell they weren’t finished with each other for the night.  But his voice was practically gone again, buried under thick moans as Ian worked his body like a fucking pro.

“Answer me, Mick,” Ian breathed, his voice half commanding, half desperate, “Tell me you know that I’ll be inside you again tonight, please!”

Mickey was losing his mind.  His body was nothing but Ian and nerve endings seeking their release.  He cried out wordlessly against the bed as Ian rolled his hips fiercely inside him.  His body was frantic and so close but even now, in this haze of blooming pleasure, he could tell he was going to need more.  They weren’t done with each other yet.

“Yes,” he panted into the bed, his head whipping back and forth as Ian quickened the pace.  “Yes,” he gasped again, “Yes, yes, yes…” as Ian drove into him , his words devolving into nonsense as he poured out his release into the bedclothes.  Above him, Ian groaned and his hips stuttered.  Mickey was an oversensitized mess but nothing could stop him from grinding back against Ian’s thrusts as gasps turned back to one clear word.

“Yes, he promised as Ian tensed and came inside him, “yes, yes, yes…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am eternally grateful to the Shameless writer who decided to make Ian and Mickey's refractory periods so short in cannon. Also, there might be more grammatical issues in this chapter than is typical. I was just exhausted at the end of this and I didn't copy edit it with my typical diligence. 
> 
> Next up: the verdict, and Mickey and Ian trying to figure stuff out


	16. Saves Us From Our Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The verdict

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry folks...

**August 25, 2019**

The fan was spinning idly against the ceiling, sending jettisons of cool air down over Ian’s face.  He could just make out the edges of the turning blades in the early morning light that was peaking through the shades.  Outside, the air was still warm but the little bedroom, with it’s fan and central AC, was practically cool.  Not that he had to worry about it, though. The loose and sleeping brunette that was curled up next to him, his head pillowed on his shoulder, was keeping him plenty warm.

Ian glanced over at Mickey, at the dark fan of lashes against his cheeks and the gentle slackness of his mouth.  He looked completely relaxed, but if the twinges in Ian’s lower back were any indicator, Mickey’s neck was going to be killing him if he didn’t move soon.  They’d been lying in the same position since one am, when they’d fallen asleep.  Or maybe the more accurate phrase was passed out.  Ian hadn’t even had the energy to roll over, his entire body reduced to jelly by the time Mickey was done with him.  And Mick had kind of just slumped to the side, wearing a satisfied little smirk.  He’d barely managed to press a quick kiss to Ian’s lips and they’d both been out.

But now it was six fucking thirty in the morning.  Ian glanced at the phone he still held in his hand, glaring at the time and the text message that had woken him.  He’d deal with that shit in a second.  He shifted his hips back and forth, groaning a little as his back cracked.  He rolled carefully, slipping his arm and leg out from under Mickey’s shoulder and thigh, letting the brunette settle onto his stomach.  Ian froze for a moment when Mickey stirred, when his eyes fluttered lightly behind the lids.  He quickly lay down beside him, letting his arm settle over the other man’s shoulders.  Mickey’s movements stilled and his breath evened as he fell back to sleep.

Ian bit at his lip, blinking as his eyes burned for a second.  There really was some hope.  Mickey never slept peacefully.  A Milkovich upbringing had forced him to develop hair trigger reflexes, and prison had only made those worse.  By all rights, Mickey should have jerked awake in a cold sweat, fists at the ready.  Instead, he lay limp and peaceful as Ian rubbed light circles between his shoulder blades.

Was it possible that Mickey actually felt safe?  God, he fucking hoped so because Mickey  _ never  _ felt safe, not really.  Despite the offers of forgiveness, Ian really wasn’t sure he could ever fully atone for some of the shit he’d put the perpetually battered love of his life through in the last three years, but if he could actually make the place beside him a safe space for Mickey, he’d at least count that as something.  

He glared at the text again, his jaw tightening as he clicked out of the messages.  He wasn’t dealing with that yet.  Mickey was going to sleep for awhile longer before the bullshit of their everyday lives invaded.  

Ian glanced from his sleeping bedmate down to the dresser along the far wall.  The top was clear.  Until yesterday, a pile of his shit; books, meds, extra clothes; had accumulated all over the wooden surface.  Last night, though, he’d wandered in here at the end of his shift to find his stuff shoved in a drawer.  His medication had been neatly organized on a shelf in the bathroom.  He’d been staring at it when Mickey had leaned in the doorway.

“Just trying to clean up,” he’d mumbled in a hesitant voice, “Is that cool?”

Was it cool?  Round one last night had been on the bathroom counter.  

Ian could feel a smile tugging at his lips but his mind still wandered in uncertain directions.  Mickey hadn’t said much, but Ian understood the old adage that actions speak louder than words.  The problem was that while actions could start a conversation, they couldn’t do all the talking.  

It had been nine days since Mickey’s testimony.  Ian had a midday shift that Sunday and he’d finally dragged his ass out of Mickey’s bed and made himself shower while the other man threw some cereal together for them.    He’d been leaning against the counter, spooning the food into his mouth, when Mickey had turned toward him from the table.

“How long’s your shift?”

“Off at one,” he’d answered, rinsing out the bowl and setting it in the dishwasher, “Gotta start making up some of the time I’ve been taking off.”

Mickey had nodded slowly, his gaze slipping down towards the table.  

“Can I come back then?”

Mickey’s eyes had flown back up to meet his, a shocked and slightly unreadable expression on his face that had caused Ian to panic for a moment.  Was he pushing too hard again?

“I don’t have to,” he muttered quickly, trying to sound nonchalant, “if it’s too late…”

“It’s fine…,” Mickey had interjected, “it’s not a problem.”  His voice sounded flat and indifferent, but Ian had caught the tense, hopeful look in his eyes.

“Okay,” he’d answered quickly, “I’ll text you when I’m close.”  He’d swooped in, pressing a kiss to Mickey’s lips.  The brunette’s response had been fast and firm, but his eyes had been softer when Ian pulled away.

He’d come back that night.  He’d come back every night since, except Thursday when he’d had to pull a double.  Mickey had gone to Svet and Yev’s for dinner, then back to the Gallagher house on a mission to look at their kitchen sink.  He hadn’t complained or pointed out the ploy, even though it had to have been obvious that Fiona had redone much of the kitchen and could easily have afforded a plumber.  She’d convinced him to crash in Ian’s bed that night, too.  Ian was still grateful for that.  His sister was far from perfect and she’d be the first to admit that, but she tended to do right by him.  

And of course, it had given him something to thank Mickey for the next day.  And he had, several times.  

And so they’d slept next to each other every night.  They’d had the kind of sex he’d always wished they could have; passionate and connected and fucking  _ loud _ because for the first time forever, they weren’t hiding or trying to keep it down so the ten other people in the house didn’t come pounding on the door to tell them to shut the fuck up.  They ate together, they bullshitted together, they made fun of dumb movies together.  

But they didn’t talk.  Not really.  They didn’t talk about what had happened, about where they’d come from.  

They didn’t talk about what came next.  

Ian wasn’t embarrassed to admit his fear.  He was afraid to start the conversation.  Right now, it felt like he had Mickey back.  If he asked though, if he tried to define it, he was afraid Mickey would bolt.  It was an old, deep running fear left over from another life, but he knew it still held enough sway over him to seal his mouth shut.  It made him content to just live in their little bubble.

He frowned at his phone again, keying in the password until he could see the text.

_ Judge will instruct jury this morning.  Delib. after lunch _ .

The bubble was about to pop.  The last nine days had seen endless bullshitting from Terry’s asshole lawyer, including two demands for a mistrial that the judge had overruled.  Closing arguments were finally complete.  Peterson had fired the text off only moments before it had woken Ian up.  He wondered if the poor guy had even been to bed yet tonight.  

Curiously, he tapped on the group chat icon and skimmed through the names.  Svet, Mandy, Lip, even Ron.  But no Mickey.  Ian could feel his lips pinching and he let his fingers curl around Mickey’s shoulder.  The lawyer could be smug and self-satisfied as hell, but Ian had to admit Peterson was a good guy.  He saw shit and gave a shit about it when he did.  He’d never risk Mickey seeing that text while he was alone.  

But that meant the job of telling him fell to Ian. 

He leaned in close to the sleeping brunette, pressing a kiss to his forehead before carefully rolling out of bed.  He’d lost his boxers along with the rest of his clothes somewhere in the apartment last night, but he grabbed a ratty old pair of basketball shorts and a t-shirt and pulled them on as he headed towards the kitchen.  There was no way he was getting back to sleep so he might as well make them a decent breakfast.

He had a pot of coffee and a good stack of french toast going when he heard a squeak of the floorboards behind him.  He turned to see a rumpled but content Mickey standing in the doorway. 

“You’re up early,” he said, his voice still thick with sleep as he headed into the kitchen towards the coffee pot.

“Stupid phone woke me up,” Ian replied, leaning down to accept a quick kiss.  His heart leaped a little as he watched Mickey fill two mugs, placing one of them next him by the griddle before wandering towards the table.  He loved this so much, this simple domestic shit.  The thought of losing it fucking terrified him.

“You shoulda woke me up,” Mickey muttered from his seat, a hint of teasing in his voice.

“I wanted you to get some more sleep.”

“You probably need it more than me,” Mickey answered, looking at him carefully as he took a sip of his coffee, “I slept for a few hours before you got home.  You’re gonna burn yourself out,” He pursed his lips when Ian threw him a dirty look.  “Hey man, the worry shit goes both ways.  Your words, remember?”

Ian just shook his head.  

“Maybe I need to put you on a booty ration until you start taking better care of yourself.” There was some definite teasing in the brunette’s voice but it was Ian’s turn to smirk.  

“Like you could fucking resist.”

“Fuck you, Firecrotch, sure I could.”

It was a combination of the challenge and the warmth of the familiar nickname that had him turning from the griddle, dropping the spatula to the counter as he yanked Mickey out of his seat and pulled him into his arms.  The shorter man fought him off playfully for a few seconds but it didn’t take long for them to melt together.

Until a slightly acrid smell pulled them apart.

“Shit!” Ian cried, turning and snatching the spatula back up to frantically flip the remaining pieces of toast.  They were black on one side and he groaned.  

“Sorry, man.”  Mickey said from beside him, “I’ll eat those.”

“Nah, we’re good.  We have plenty.” He tossed the burned slices into the trash and waved the lingering smoke towards the hood fan.  “Grab some plates?  I gotta tell you about the text.”

Mickey nodded but his eyes dimmed.  “Anything bad?”

“I don’t think it’ll go that way,” Ian answered simply.  He put the platter of toast and a bottle of syrup on the table and slid into the seat he now thought of as his.  Mickey passed him a plate as he sat across from him.  

“Was it Peterson?”

Ian glanced up at that but could only nod.

“He still thinks it’ll only take one day?”

This time Ian shrugged a little.  “It’s like he told us.  Deliberation will start after lunch.  So yeah, if it goes like they think it will, I guess we’ll know today.”  He gazed pensively at Mickey who was staring down at his plate with a hard, fixed look in his eyes.  “You alright?”

Mickey didn’t look up.  “No. I’m fucking worried that my own dad is gonna get off and then come try to kill both our families.” He glanced away towards the window, his eyes bright and angry.  “Everyone knows what to do, right.”

“Yeah, with Carl back in school, the only ones I gotta worry about are Fi and Liam.  Lip’s gonna have them crash with him at Sierra’s place.  And that’ll be it.  He won’t know where any of us are even if he wants to try something.”

“And then we take care of shit?”

Ian nodded.  “And then we take care of shit.”

Mickey nodded absently, but his eyes remained adrift.  “Okay, but...you gotta understand, this isn’t just fucking talk.  I mean, we’re really gonna…”

“Mick!” Ian interjected, his voice bouncing off the walls of the little kitchen.  Mickey glanced back at him, his eyes still a little wild as Ian reached across the table and grabbed his hands, “I’m not fucking around with this, okay, cause I know he’s not fucking around.  He gets off, we find out where he’s staying, we make a plan, we get rid of him.  And we all sleep fine at night.”

Mickey’s eyes shifted away again. “Ian, you’re a fucking EMT .  You’re supposed to…”

“Save lives?  Yeah, I know.  That’s what I’m gonna do, okay?  Save my brother and your sister.  Save your kid.  Save  _ you. _ ” He stood up suddenly, pulling Mickey up into his arms.  The brunette didn’t even put up a symbolic fight this time.  He just came willingly, burrowing into Ian’s chest. 

“Listen to me,” he begged against Mickey’s ear, “I will kill that fuck.  If you want to do it, you get to do it, but if not, I will and gladly.  He’s hurt everyone I love and he’s not gonna stop.  I’ll put a knife through his heart and I won’t blink doing it.”

“Nah,”

“Mick…”

Mickey pulled away from him but his eyes were lighter.  “Nah,” he repeated, “No knife, not with today’s forensics.”  He glanced down, shaking his head, but his lips curled slightly.  “Kidnap and strangle.”

Ian stared down at him, “You got this planned already?”

“No,” he replied tightly, drawing out of Ian’s arms but leaving their hands linked.  “Just something I talked to Colin and Iggy about once.”  He sighed.  So did Ian.

“Let’s eat,” Ian said finally, lifting his chin towards the table, “It’s gonna be a long ass day and we’re probably worrying about nothing.  You know that, right?  They’re going to find him guilty.”

Mickey nodded slowly, drawing his hands back and sitting down.  He grabbed a few slices of toast and poured a pool of syrup on them.  “I know.  It’s just, it’s fucking hard for me to believe anything can work out.  Everything’s going good.  I’m waiting for shit to blow up again.”

Ian felt guilt curl in his stomach.  He’d contributed to that.  

“I get it,” he said slowly, “but we can’t do shit about it right now.  We see what happens, we deal with it.  That’s all we can do.”  He watched as Mickey nodded, his face pensive but calm, “Now eat your fucking toast.  It’s awesome and I don’t want to waste it.”

Mickey smirked but took a bite.

*************************************************************************************

Ian was at the station when he got the text.  He’d thought about calling in but Mickey had argued against it.  If Terry got off, he’d be a free man today and Ian would probably have to call out a lot until they managed to take care of the problem.  It was a slow day, thank fuck, because he’d barely been able to concentrate and that wasn’t something a person in his profession could afford to do.  

His phone chimed at 2:27.  When he glanced down at the screen, his vision had grayed a little.  This was it.  All the waiting would be over in a matter of hours.  They’d have a verdict and they’d have to live with it.  

He fielded a flurry of texts as he changed back into his street clothes and headed towards the El.  Mandy, Lip, and Mickey were all blowing up his phone but his answer was always the same.  They all just needed to get there.  He allowed himself a small grunt of laughter as he sat on the train.  He didn’t know how, on a group text full of some of the smartest and most capable people he knew, the bipolar kid had somehow become the voice of sound logic.  He scrolled through his texts, landing on Peterson’s most recent message.  2:27.  That meant they’d barely deliberated an hour.  He thought that was a good sign but he wished like hell that he knew for sure.  

He caught up with Svetlana on the front steps of the courthouse. She looked pulled together in some slacks and a short sleeve blouse but Ian could see the tension in the lines of her face.

“You good?” he asked, trying for casual as they headed into the courthouse doors.

“I am fine,” she stated emphatically, “This is not problem.” Her words were confident but her voice was shaky and she didn’t quite meet his eyes, “And you, Carrot Boy?  You are okay?”

“Let’s see how this goes,” he answered honestly, “You have your shit worked out?”

“Alibi is covered for three days,” she answered easily.  “Yevgeny and I stay at home, watch movies, eat ice cream.  He will enjoy it.” She glanced at Ian out of the corner of her eye as they approached the elevator.  “He will want to see his papa.  You will make this happen.”  She stared hard at him.

Ian glanced at her.  “You think I can make Mickey…”

“You will make this happen!” she repeated, insistence in her voice.  

“Okay,” Ian said, “Like I could even keep him away.”

Svetlana nodded and her expression softened.  “This is true,” she acknowledged as the elevator chimed their floor, “Is good.”  

Mickey and Lip were walking toward them as they stepped into the large marble hallway.  Mickey found his way to his side and Ian quickly wove their hands together as they headed back towards the assembled group.  Mandy and Ron were already there, flanked by Colin and a cleaned up Iggy.  Fiona and Deb were standing with Lip, though Neil and Sierra had stayed away by mutual agreement.  

No need to put any more of them on Terry’s radar.  

They were all milling around, subdued and quiet, when Peterson came into the hall.

“It’s time.” he stated simply, but there was a hint of confident authority in his voice that Ian appreciated.  The lawyer scanned the little group as they headed towards the door.  

“Sit behind us and sit about three rows back,” he told them, “just in case he tries any shit.”

The courtroom was pretty full when they filed in, much fuller than when he’d testified.  He saw a bunch of cops and a few people who looked like reporters.  A group of people in business suits filled out the rest of the gallery and Ian recalled that Peterson had once told him how law students were attending the trial as a sort of independent study.  Whatever.  All it meant to him now was that no matter how this turned out, they’d have an audience.  

He was sandwiched in between Mickey and Mandy when they finally brought Terry in.  Ian stared at him, a wave of intense, sickening hatred starting to pool in his gut.  The vivid bruising was still branching across the man’s nose and cheekbones and that made him feel a little better, but he still resented how healthy the fucker looked.  It wasn’t fucking fair.  Mickey had wasted away while locked up but here was Terry, looking hale and ready for a fucking fight.  It turned Ian’s stomach but he guessed it made sense.  Mickey’s thuggishness had only been skin-deep but Terry’s ran through to his core.  The old fuck fed on the pain and isolation of prison life.  That cold vitality bled from his hazel eyes as he scanned the courtroom and let his gaze settle on the little group.  

They glared right back.  Ian counted it a small victory that the miserable bastard looked away first.  

The jury was filing in now, a group of well-dressed, middle-class gentry types.  Peterson insisted that the jury they’d picked was solid, just what they wanted, but as Ian gazed over them, he’d never felt less confident.  He felt Mickey’s fingers clenching instinctively around his, clammy and trembling with tension.

There was a cold, watery feeling running down his spine now, little tense tendrils weaving their way into every synapse and nerve ending.  The sharp edges and bright colors were dominating his vision again, but he didn’t think he was having a panic attack.  No, that wasn’t it at all.  In fact, as he stared at the group of jurors sitting silently in their little box, their faces carefully blank and averted, he suddenly realized a few things with crystal clarity.  

He didn’t want to kill Terry.  The truth of that statement hit him like a sledgehammer upside the head.  He didn’t want to look into that evil, viscous face and shove in a blade or pull a trigger.  After today, he didn’t ever want to be this close to this vile piece of shit again.  He didn’t want to hurt him.  He didn’t want to pollute himself with the blood of Terry Milkovich.  He wanted the bastard to die years from now, in a cage.   

Alone.

But he would kill Terry.  Before this moment, he’d spoken those words and made that promise but they’d covered doubts, fears, a reluctance.  That was gone now.  He would kill Terry Milkovich dead in a heartbeat.  He’d do it tonight, before he did another thing that mattered in this life.  Before he had the chance to hug his best friend, or curl around the warm body of the love of his life.  Before he ever saved another life he would take this one.  He wouldn’t blink.  He knew that with absolute certainty.

And the certainty made him sick. 

His fingers were now clamped around Mickey’s and his gaze was fixed on the jury box.  In it sat the twelve people upon whom rested the balance of his soul; the sum of who he wanted to be.  

And who he suddenly realized he could be.

He  _ could _ paint his hands in blood.

He didn’t fucking want to but he could.

“All rise.”

The next few moments seemed to happen in a blur.  He got to his feet, half pulled by a dazed and confused Mickey.  He sank down again when the bailiff gave the command to be seated.  There were words back and forth between the judge, the bailiff, the foreman, but he couldn’t hear them through the roaring in his ears.

He wasn’t perfect.  Neither was Mickey.  They were fuck-ups and criminals but murder was a line they’d never crossed, and he didn’t want to now.  Mickey was right.  He saved lives.  That’s what he wanted to do, what he’d always wanted.  Soldier or street medic, it didn’t matter.  He wanted to help people, not hurt them.  But if one suddenly required the other…

Fuck!

His eyes were glued to the twelve people sitting in the little box.  His heart was hammering in his chest.  They held his very identity in their hands.  

“We the jury…

His ears were starting to pound.  His fingertips were numb and tingly.

“...for the crime of sexual assault in the first…”

His breath was catching in his throat.  Beside him, Micky’s other hand shot over and wrapped around their intertwined fingers, clinging for purchase.

“...find the defendant…”

*************************************************************************************

Iggy was in the driver’s seat beside him, navigating the old conversion van as they pulled up in front of the Milkovich house.  Ian stared out the window at the old place.  It was dark, lit only by the streetlights, but a lone light illuminated the living room behind the curtains.  

Someone was home.

Ian grimaced at the sight of the old place.  He’d never, ever wanted to set foot inside this house again.

But Mickey had insisted that it needed to go this way.

“You gonna be okay to do this?” Iggy asked from beside him, and the concern in his voice was genuine.

He nodded fast, his eyes fixed on his lap.  “I can do it,” he insisted and his hand reached out, scrabbling for the door.  

“Okay,” Iggy said, traces of doubt still lingering in his voice, “I’ll leave the van here for when you’re done.  We’ll deal with getting it back tomorrow.”  He opened the driver’s side door and hopped out.  Ian felt the keys land in his lap right before Iggy slammed the door shut and melted into the night, leaving him alone.

He glanced up at the house again as he pocketed the keys.  He took a deep breath.  He could do this.  He’d promised Mickey.

He’d promised himself.

The front stairs gave a little under his feet, but the sound was louder in his mind than in reality.  It had to be.  There was no movement behind the curtain, no shadow crossing the single glowing light.  His hand hovered above the door knob for a moment, hesitating at the last second.  

Did he want to do this?  Did he want to commit himself to whatever crazy exorcism lay behind this door?  He remembered the courtroom, Mickey’s fingers clenching his hard as the verdict was read.

Yes, he wanted to do this.  He’d probably enjoy it.

His resolution renewed, he grabbed the handle and pushed the door open.

There was no sound as he stepped inside the old, hateful, haunted house.  He closed the door behind him, snibbed the door lock and turned the deadbolt for good measure.  He could hear an uneasy rustle in the living room and it sent a shiver over his skin.

There was only one occupant in the house.

And he knew Ian was here.

He took a step forward, then another, until he emerged into the trail of thin light as it pierced the darkened hallway.  There was a man sitting on the couch in the living room, the only piece of furniture that had survived their purge.  He leaned against the cushions with the comfortable familiarity of someone who has lived their whole life in a particular space and cannot easily separate it from themselves.  As Ian watched, the man’s eyes latched onto him, tensing slightly.  He pushed off the cushion, coming easily to his feet.

“I knew you’d come.” the man said, taking an aggressive step forward.

“You’d better’ve fucking known by now,” Ian answered, somehow surprised by the naked aggression in his own voice as he stepped fully into the room.

“I did,” the man bit out, walking forward with purpose now.  “Of course I fucking knew.  C’mere…”

“No, you fucking come here,” Ian cut him off, stalking forward now, his arms whipping up, reaching out.

His left arm wound itself around Mickey’s waist.  His right hand curled around the back of the brunette’s neck, pulling him in close and combing up through his hair to cradle the back of his head.  Ian pressed them together, scrambling for contact, but he held himself back at the very last minute, giving himself a mere second to catch a breath before he pulled Mickey’s lips to his, gentle and soft and fucking worshipful.  He sought out the blue gaze in the dim light of the single bulb and he felt Mickey’s hands slip up and around his neck.  They stared into each other’s eyes, swimming, floating, drowning.  Who could say?  Ian could feel Mickey’s lips against his, the warm, delicate pressure.  In his head, he heard voices, some fierce, some jubilant, some malevolently gleeful…

_ Guilty… _

Mickey’s hands were sneaking down his chest now.  They were skimming up under his shirt, yanking it up and away…

_...for the crime of sexual battery… _

He fisted Mickey’s shirt, pulled it off, pulled the smaller man flush against him as he sucked gently at his bottom for lip…

... _ for the crime of coercive imprisonment… _

He pressed their lips together hard as his fingers slid into the waistband of Mickey’s good suit pants.  He breathed lightly, teasingly against the brunette’s lips as he let his fingers slip around the line of his hips, flicking open the button and sliding the zipper down…

_...Guilty… _

_...Guilty… _

_...We, the jury, find the defendant… _

He slid his huge hands inside the elastic of Mickey’s briefs, shoving them down with a harshness that was born of need.  The shorter man didn’t resist.  He only inhaled sharply against Ian’s lips, letting his blue eyes fall closed as Ian stripped him completely, wrapping an arm around his waist to lift him out of the discarded pants.

_...Guilty...Guilty...We find the defendant… _

He froze for a moment, wrapping his arms tight around the brunette’s waist, clinging desperately to establish some sense of self-control.  Was this okay?  Was he reading this right?  He’d been at Sierra’s with Lip when he’d gotten the cryptic text from Mickey, asking him to meet up at the old house.  His whole body had seized up at the thought, but Mickey had been insistent.  Ian had tried to call, but Mick had been in the middle of putting Yevy to bed at Svet’s and he wouldn’t interrupt that for anything.  

He’d received a clipped text twenty minutes later. 

_ Just get here plz  fckng revenge time _

Iggy and the van had already been idling on the sidewalk by the time he’d made it outside.  The older Milkovich hadn’t had much to say as they navigated the south side streets but he’d turned to Ian for a moment at a stoplight.

“I’m gonna find a way to make sure the fucker hears about this.  I fucking guarantee that shit.” he’d stated emphatically.  Ian had only blinked and nodded.  He hadn’t been entirely sure what “this” had meant.  He still wasn’t.

But he had an idea.

“What are we doing here?” he asked, pressing their brows together as he stared into Mickey’s eyes.  He expected the blue to be wild and violent, but the brunette’s gaze was clearer and calmer than he could ever remember it.

“He’s gone,” Mickey whispered against his lips.

“Yeah,” he breathed back.

“Really gone.  He’s really fucking gone,” there was a jubilant hysteria beneath Mickey’s voice this time, and now a dance of wild light flicked through his eyes.  

“He is,” Ian agreed, letting one hand slide up to press between Mickey’s shoulders while the other cradled his cheek.  

Mickey grinned then, the curl of his lips and the glint in his eyes turning darkly mischievous as he leaned up on his toes and pulled Ian’s ear to his lips.

“Then he can’t come in and interrupt us this time.”

Ian didn’t catch the implication right away.  It was a full three seconds before he pulled back, his eyes wide as he searched Mickey’s face. There was devious mirth in his gaze but no sign of jest and Ian stared into his eyes for a moment, fascinated.

Then his gaze snapped to the side and settled on the couch beside them.

Ian drew in a sharp breath as Mickey leaned forward, letting the length of his torso press against Ian’s bare chest.  A clean sheet had been spread across the couch but it was still as lumpy and shitty as it had ever been.  His mind raced, remembering the crack of the front door as it hit the wall, the confused rage that had bloomed across Terry’s face as they’d turned towards him.  Ian sucked in a deep breath, freezing for a moment as he recalled the last time he’d been in this room all those weeks ago.  But no, it wasn’t panic that was tightening in his chest now.

It was anger.  

That fucker had interrupted a hell of a lot more than just some quick fuck on the couch.  He’d screwed up the turning point of he and Mickey’s entire damn relationship.  They’d hidden themselves for more than a year, surviving on fast, secret little trysts in freezers and under bleachers.  Hot, cold, dirty, quick, and silent.  

That night, though, had changed everything.  They’d had time, privacy, real walls, real heat.  Hell, they’d even had a real bed for the first time in forever.  And Mickey’d already kissed him, that quick press of lips in the van right before Ned’s crazy wife had started raining down shit.  It had all come together when Mick had asked to him to crash at his house.  His words had been tough but Ian had seen the hope in his eyes when he’d made the offer.  

So they’d eaten pizza roles and watched dumb movies and let their arms press closer together as the tension between them built.  When the dam finally broke, it broke hard.

Ian glanced around the stripped living space, still holding Mickey tight to him, and let his gaze linger back in the hallway to the wall between the bedroom doors.  They’d crashed there for a moment as they’d wrestled their way back to Mickey’s room, stripped bare and wrapped up in each other.  Mickey had let him press his tongue between his lips for the first time as he trapped the brunette against the wall.  Mickey had gone so soft, so willing, that it had stolen his breath and his rational thought.  

He’d run on instinct then, and somehow they’d found Mickey’s bed, wrestling around, naked and giddy in the sheets.  When Mickey had let out a hiss of pain as his ass pressed to the mattress, Ian had flipped them over and Mickey had gone easily; still soft, still pliant.

And oh fuck, he’d looked amazing riding the length of Ian’s dick, his eyes closed but his lips parted, little gusts of breath escaping each time he’d taken the full length.  Ian had forced himself to keep still and enjoy the ride but when he’d rested his hands on Mickey’s hips and let his thumbs trail lightly over his stomach, the first quiet, tiny moans has spilled from the brunette’s mouth.  The sound had sent a jolt through Ian’s whole body, right up to the head of his cock.  

He’d shoved his hips up, matching Mickey’s untempered motion.  Above him, the brunette had begun to emit sharp little cries, his face twisting with pleasure.  The hyperreactive, controlled street thug had disappeared.   Mickey had been open, vulnerable, lost in their moment, and it had remade Ian’s heart in a way that could never be undone.  He’d reached up and drawn Mickey close until their lips could touch and the tempo of their intertwining tongues could match the speed of their connected bodies.  Mickey had melted against him, breaking the kiss as loud, needy cries has spilled from his mouth.  The sound had snapped Ian’s control and his arms had wrapped around the brunette, pinning them together.  Mickey’s own arms had slid inadvertently up and under his shoulders, pressing their bodies even tighter as he let his head rest on Ian’s chest.  The warm fog of each panting breath had ghosted across Ian’s skin as Mickey thrust back against his shaft, artless and erratic and sexy as fuck.  When he came, it had been with a high, mewling cry.  He’d squirmed in Ian’s arms, trying to pull away and reach his lover’s lips, but Ian had given no quarter.  He and Mickey were finally making love, he was still hard, and for the first time ever, they’d had time to tease and play.

And play he had, caging Mickey within his strong arms as the oversensitive man panted and pleaded and twisted against him.  He rolled his hips up inside the brunette until Mickey had finally collapsed against him again, submitting to the teasing torture, all traces of the southside badass wiped clean from his open face.  He’d easily allowed Ian to press kisses across his lips and jaw, to nip at the juncture of his neck, to continue to thrust inside his body.

He’d easily allowed Ian to make love to him all night.  

And that should have been it.  It all should have been different.  Mickey’s newfound warmth hadn’t vanished with the light of a new day, as Ian had feared.  Instead, he’d been trusting enough to share his fucking sex toys.  It had all felt so right.

And only minutes later, Terry had blown it all to hell. 

Well, fuck Terry Milkovich.  He wanted to build something with Mickey now, something real and solid, without the spectre of that piece of shit hanging over them.  And Mickey couldn’t have been more right.  The perfect way to do that was to take this moment back, to finish what the fucker had interrupted.  

He pulled back from the shorter man, pressing a quick kiss to his lips, then spun him towards the couch.  

“On your knees,” he said, sending Mickey forward with a smack to one cheek.

“Alright, alright,” the brunette acquiesced, sliding onto the couch and letting his hands rest along the back.  Ian stared at him, drinking in the sight of his arched back and the ass that was still fucking perfect even after prison and life on the run in South America.  He kicked his shoes away and stripped off his own pants and boxers, letting them fall to the floor in a messy pile as he stepped out of them.  

He took a step toward the couch, then another, kneeling on the crisp sheet, feeling the give of the old, battered cushions beneath his weight.  He slid his legs forward, letting them slot easily between Mickey’s knees, pressing them further apart.  The brunette groaned slightly, letting his forehead rest between his hands on the couch back, but Ian could see a sudden tension in his shoulders right before a blue eyed gaze turned on him.  

“Are you alright?” Mickey asked, a hint of nervous fear in his voice that Ian wanted to wash away.  He shook his head slowly, leaning close to press his lips to Mickey’s, trailing them over his cheek to find his ear.

“I will be.” he promised, satisfied as the tension bled out of Mickey’s back.

He smiled, feeling the devious tug on his lips, then leaned in and bit down gently on the shell of Mickey’s ear.  The brunette jolted, but Ian was already in motion again.  He needed to fuck Mickey into the cushions of this cursed fucking couch. 

Because once they’d taken back this moment that was stolen, they could really leave this hell house behind.

His fingers skimmed down Mickey’s spine and into the cleft of his ass.  Just as he’d expected, the way was already prepared for him.  Reaching down between his own legs, Ian grasped the head of his cock and pressed it to Mickey’s stretched entrance. 

He closed his eyes a second before he slid home.

A gasp tore out of both of them in perfect synch.  Mickey slid forward, sinking down on the thick cushions and the couch back.  Ian followed him down, curling his arms and body around him and resting his forehead against the nape of Mickey’s neck.  He drew back fully, feeling Mickey jump when his sensitive rim caught the head of Ian’s dick.  His hips twitched and he thrust in again, slow and deep, and he could feel the rumble of Mickey’s moans.  Slowly, slowly, Ian filled him, again and again and again as he ran his lips and tongue along Mickey’s neck and back.  The brunette turned over his shoulder, reaching for his lips, kissing him between pants of breath, but when he tried to push back and speed up their pace, Ian just huffed out a laugh and held him still.

“You fuck,” Mickey spit out breathily, admitting defeat and falling back into the the cushions, “You’re fucking teasing me.”

“Yeah,” Ian drawled against his throat, punctuating the statement with a hard snap of his hips that drew an appreciative groan from the brunette, “I am.  That was the night I learned how to tease you.”  He felt Mickey stiffen in his arms and moved quickly, pulling the brunette up against his chest while he balanced back on his haunches, the smaller man secure in his lap.  

“I’m not rushing.  This has to be slow because that was what that night was.  No rushing, no fucking hiding.  Just us.” Mickey sighed in his arms as he pressed a kiss against his throat.  “Do you ever think about that night?  Not the morning, not all the shit that happened the next day, but just that night?”

He rolled his hips, drawing in a breath as the length of his dick pressed against the sensitive walls of Mickey’s channel. The brunette grasped, his hands grabbing at Ian’s arms where they wrapped across his chest, clinging to them like a lifeline.  His head fell back against Ian’s shoulder, his eyes shut and his mouth open, but he managed to nod his head.

“You do?” he whispered against his temple, “Me, too.  I remember you kissing me, riding my dick so fucking good.”  His hips twitched up instinctively at that memory again.  “I remember curling around you in the morning, pushing back inside you even though we were both still mostly asleep…”

Mickey’s breath caught and one hand reached up to wind around the back of his neck.  Mickey’s eyes were open now, staring up at him, shiny with emotion.  

“I fucking think about it all the time.  That’s when I first knew I loved you.  That you loved me.  I thought it might be okay, that we’d make it okay, and then it all went to shit.”

“It did,” Ian stated, holding him closer.  A tear spilled out of Mickey’s eye, but he kissed it immediately away. “But look around us right now.  I mean, fuck, you are literally sitting on my dick in his fucking living room right now” Mickey snorted out a laugh.

“And the fucker can’t do shit about it.” Mickey’s hips twitched down against him with that statement but this time Ian didn’t even try to hold him back.

“Nope.” he replied simply.

“Not a motherfucking thing.”  Ian felt Mickey’s hands slide down his sides, felt them curl under his ass for leverage as the smaller man continued to ride him at a quickening stride.  His own breath was hitching now but he found enough for one more response.  

“Not a motherfucking thing.  Not ever again.” he huffed.  His own hands began to pull Mickey back against him as they rocked together at a pace that was quickly becoming frantic.  He pushed up with his knees, dumping Mickey back down on the cushions, reaching over the smaller man to grab the couch back as he continued to drive inside of him.  Mickey wasn’t even trying to be quiet now, spitting out a litany of profanity that made Ian grin against the back of his neck as the brunette let loose with a long spiel of fuck, fuck, fucks into the couch cushions.

“Ian..” he panted desperately, pushing himself back hard.  Ian leaned down and found his ear.

“Tell me what you need.” he demanded.  He could feel his own release building.

“Please...please, just, fuck, fuck...make me fucking come.” Mickey was half out of his mind but he managed to make a grab for Ian’s hand, yanking it off the back of the couch and down toward his own hard and bobbing cock.  “I need it to be you,” he begged.

Ian was barely holding on to the last shards of his control but he felt a wolfish smile spread across his lips at the request.  He let his hand trail Mickey’s stomach, studiously ignoring his cock as he gently cupped his balls.  Mickey moaned, loud and throaty, when he rolled his next thrust.

“There?” he asked innocently.

“Jesus fuck, Gallagher!”

Yeah, there.

He drove his hips hard, plunging into Mickey’s body at a perfect angle as the smaller man cried out and buried his face in the cushions.  He was close, so close and Ian needed him to come, now, because he couldn’t hold on much longer.  He brought his other hand up to his mouth and licked the pad of his thumb.  Reaching down, he ran his finger over the the head of Mickey’s cock, smearing pearls of pre-come as he mounted a double assault on Mickey’s prostate and the sensitive tip.  The brunette keened wordlessly, pushing back against him, his fingers clenching at the couch back.  Ian grinned and gave one more flick of his thumb across the delicate skin of the brunette’s dick and the sudden stimulation sent the other man careening over the edge.  Mickey’s back arched as he came, nearly knocking them both to the floor with the force of his response.  Ian caught them, using his last bit of conscious thought to tumble them forward into the cushions as Mickey tensed around the full length of him.  And with that, Ian was done.  He came explosively, feeling his arms squeeze the brunette close as he pressed his brow to Mickey’s shoulder.  Now he was the one crying out, his own wordless groans filling the room as Mickey linked their fingers together.  He clung to that hand like it was an anchor, like it was the only real thing in a world that had been reduced to nothing but the intense pleasure of their connected bodies.  There was no Terry, no prison, no bipolar disorder or Mexican border crossings.  In this moment, there was only them.  

His mind felt fuzzy and disoriented as he lay against Mickey’s back, but he didn’t mind the rocking sensation of their dual panting breaths.  He sucked in lungfuls of oxygen as his head finally began to clear, as the events of the day slowly returned.  His body felt like jelly, like it had this morning but so much worse.  Ian pulled away from Mickey’s shoulder and glanced around the room.  Their plan was done.  They’d won.  

It was time to get the fuck out of here.

He pressed a kiss to Mickey’s shoulder as he slid himself back, stepping off the couch.  A sudden adrenaline fueled burst of energy moved him along as he located all of Mickey’s clothes.  The brunette had turned onto his back and lay, dazed and well-fucked, on the couch.  He glanced up when Ian tossed his clothes to him.

“What are we doing?” He asked, his gaze slightly uncertain.

Ian was pulling his own pants up, but he stopped immediately at the hesitancy in Mickey’s voice.  Leaning down, he pressed a firm kiss to the shorter man’s lips, pulling him to his feet as he stood up.

“Get dressed,” he said simply.  “We’re done with this place.  We’re never coming back.”

Mickey nodded, his face softening as the final moorings of the Milkovich house of horrors finally broke away from his soul.  He yanked his clothes on at lightening speed.  Ian had already made his way to the door.  He wound an arm around Mickey’s back, pulling him close.

“Are you good?” he asked scanning Mickey’s face.

The brunette stared pensively at the floor for a moment.  “No,” he stated simply, glancing up to meet Ian’s eyes, “No, I’m not good.  But fuck it, I’ll get there.”  He turned and glanced around the house once more, pulling away from Ian for a moment.  Walking back into the living room, he shut off the lone light, sending the house back into darkness.  There was a noticeable ease in his step as he walked back towards the front door.

“I’m better now,” he muttered, grabbing Ian’s hand and pulling him out the door.  They walked down the stairs and out of the gate, jumping into Iggy’s old van and pulling away from the curb.

Neither of them ever looked back.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so the apology is really about the misdirection. I don't even know what happened with this chapter. The essence of it is the same as my outline and the changes aren't going to change the story overall, but at no time prior to the actual writing of this chapter did I ever consider them going back to the house and having sex. And then, while I was working on this, I suddenly just knew that was what happened. I was nervous about this, but to me, it does make perfect sense. Mickey and Ian both have a tendency to ritualize sex in specific settings. That's very canon compliant so I'm sticking with it. 
> 
> Also, I'm behind in responding to comments. I apologize. I hate when I do that but school is keeping me very busy so I'm trying to dedicate what free time I have to writing. I'm already sad at how long its taking me to get these chapters out. 
> 
> Next Up: Mickey is family.


	17. A Friendly Word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in the (new) life of Mickey Milkovich

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I apologize for the delay. This chapter is a little bit of a filler but I still love it because I think the boys deserve a bit of a break from all the DRAMA.

**September 25, 2019**

His neck was starting to cramp, but Mickey still walked in slow circles around the perimeter of the co-op, staring up at the huge branch that was hung up on the corner of the roof.  Behind him, and well out of the way of the huge limb, Yevgeny was twirling in circles, spinning wildly with his arms out until he got dizzy and fell over in a heap.  He’d lie there giggling until the vertigo passed, then get up and do it all over again.

Mickey could only shake his head.  It was the kind of shit that might’ve agitated the fuck out of him if another person’s kid had done it.

But this was his kid.  And it was absolutely fucking adorable.

“What do you think?”

Mickey turned around to face Tony Markovich, dressed in old running shorts and a ratty gray CPD t-shirt.  The blonde cop’s gaze was also fixed on the giant tree branch.

“Gotta get it down quick,” Mickey said easily, “If it falls on it’s own, it’ll probably sheer off the shingles from the whole corner of the roof.”

Tony nodded.  “Yeah, you’re right.  But we gotta call someone in.  This type of work isn’t in your contract.”

“You’re sure as shit right it isn’t,” Mickey answered immediately, but there was a lightness in his tone that surprised him.  His well-honed defensive hard edges were softening more and more everyday.  

Behind them, Yev collapsed into a giggling heap again.  Mickey could feel the little smile creeping across his lips.  He shook his head.

“I’m gonna have to call around and get some estimates to get it removed.  I’ll use the money from the emergency fund, right?” He glanced at Tony, who nodded.  “I got most of the shit I need to start doing the maintenance work that we talked about for the rest of the roof, patching up the chimney vents and shit, but I don’t think I should start yet.”

Tony glanced at him, his eyebrow raised.

“Here take a look at this.” Mickey led him around to the other side of the co-op building, where another huge northern red oak was standing.  “This one’s got a bunch of branches that look pretty fucked, too.  We should get someone in to look at all of them.”

Tony groaned.  “The board is gonna give me some serious pushback about that expense.”  He glanced at Mickey hopefully, “You wanna talk to them?”

“Fuck no,” Mickey stated, but the good natured tone was still in his voice and Tony smiled, “You’re co-op manager.  I just get paid to keep the place standing.” He glanced back up at the old tree. “Seriously, though, pitch it like it’ll save money in the end. If this happened once, it can happen again and they don’t want it to happen once I’ve done the roof work.  That’ll really waste money.” He put a hand on the tree’s trunk.  “The tree guys can probably knock off some of the cost if you give them the wood they cut.  They can sell it.”

Tony nodded, already typing shit into his phone.  Mickey took a step back and glanced down the yard.  Yev had apparently gotten sick of spinning and was now lying on the neatly cut lawn, making puppets with his hands against the blue sky.  The kid could entertain the fuck out of himself, that was for sure.  Apparently, it was a sign of high intelligence.  Or so Svet kept insisting and who the hell was he to argue?  

He smiled to himself as he glanced around the interior of the high, wrought iron fence that surrounded the co-op.  If anyone had tried to tell him a year ago that he’d be standing in the middle of Chicago, talking all professional with a Chicago cop about co-op management bullshit, that he’d be considered trustworthy enough to pick up his kid from preschool so Svet could do inventory, he’d have laughed.

No, that wasn’t true.  A year ago, he didn’t have enough of himself left to laugh.  But oh, how shit had changed.  

Tony looked up from his phone.  “Okay,” he muttered, casting some stink eye at the branch, “I’ll get the board together and we’ll get it approved.”

Mickey glanced over at him incredulously. “You think it’ll be that easy?”

“No,” Tony said with a grimace, “but if I tell them that it came from you, it’ll limit the bullshit.”

“Why?”  There was genuine confusion in his voice but Tony only quirked a brow at him.

“Because you’re mister fix-it.  Because you fixed their windows and got rid of the mice and basically made their lives better.”

“They’re cops.  I’m a fucking Milkovich…”

“You got the AC working during the hottest summer in decades.  That was kind of a big deal.”

“So that just makes it all okay?”

Tony stared up at the branch again, a look of perplexed aggravation on his face.  “Yup,” he stated simply, turning back to his phone, “I’ll let you know when I hear from the board members.  It shouldn’t take too long.”  He wandered back up the front steps, throwing a wave over his shoulder.  

Mickey’s eyes hung on the retreating cop’s back but his mind was still stuck on his words.  He shook his head, glancing down the lawn to the little blonde boy who had now rolled onto his stomach and taken to examining some of the fallen chunks of leaves that had also come down in the storm.  Mickey drew in a deep breath.  His life had transformed into something so different, so surreal, he almost couldn’t keep up.  A year ago, he’d been a fugitive, living in a foreign country, eking out a meager existence.  His family was far away, his father and the law were still a persistent threat, and he was practically invisible because that was the only safe choice. 

And now cops trusted him with the keys to their homes.  Now his ex-wife asked him to pick his kid up from daycare.  Now his brothers and sister were out from under a perpetual cloud of fear for the first time in their whole lives.  

Now Terry was gone.

And now Ian was practically living with him.

Mickey stared hard at the grass in front of him for a moment.  It had been exactly a month since the verdict, which meant they’d been kicking back and forth between his apartment and the Gallagher house for going on six weeks now.  They were sharing a bed, clothes, physical space in a way that felt safe and natural.  But even now, after all these weeks, they hadn’t actually sat down and talked about it. 

Ian wanted to.  It was driving the redhead fucking nuts actually.  There were times when Mickey could see it in his eyes.  But he never said a word and Mickey never said a word because talk still meant risk.  They were ready to risk everything for each other except the possibility of the other’s loss.  

Mickey set the pad of one thumb to the bridge of his nose, pressing down to relieve some of the building tension in his head.  He knew what he wanted, and he knew Ian wanted it, too.  It wasn’t all that complicated.  Ian wanted to come live with him, to finally grab all of his shit from the Gallagher place and bring it over officially.  To never have to leave again.  And Mickey wanted to let him.  He wanted to give Ian half of the dresser and a side of the closet. The redhead had already claimed a side of the bed, but that was a holdover from their last fucked up stint at cohabitation.  They’d never talked about it then.  He’d simply declared that Ian was staying and Ian had stayed.

This felt like a real decision and therein lay the problem.  Real decisions meant real consequences.  And they were going to have to deal with that soon, whether they liked it or not.  

But not today. Today, Ian had to work a twelve hour shift and would need some decent sleep when he was done.  Today, Mickey had a branch to fix, a yard to clean up, and a kid to look after.  

He snatched Yev up as he strode by him, swinging the squealing little boy into his arms and settling him onto his shoulders.  Yev’s chubby little fingers pulled at his hair a little but he barely noticed.  He glanced around as they headed towards the door.  He’d need to get out here with a rake after he made some calls but overall, the yard looked pretty great.  He’d shored up some of the looser bars in the wrought iron perimeter fence and done some light repairs on the paths around the exterior.  They’d need to be regraded sometime soon, but he thought he could keep them up for at least two more years while the co-op got on its feet.  

In the back of the building, the rear exit opened up to a huge courtyard that had probably once been a really gorgeous garden until weeds and overgrowth had taken it down.  It was clear now, though, all the build-up torn out and the soil turned over in preparation.  Next year, the plan was to plant a community vegetable garden.  The thought made Mickey feel absurdly content.

Yev drifted into his room when they got inside, pulling out a huge bag of legos that Ian had produced one day, claiming that Liam had outgrown them.  Honestly, most of Yev’s room was comprised of whatever Liam Gallagher hand-me-downs Debbie hadn’t needed for her kid.  The little toddler bed in the corner hadn’t been used for a full-blown sleepover yet (An actual formal custody discussion with Svet was due right after he finally nutted up and asked Ian to move in) but the kid had crashed there for naps a few times and seemed to think it was fine.  The walls of the little room, the surface of the fridge, and the pinboard above Mickey’s desk in the corner of the living room were all full of Yev’s drawings.  

It was to that desk that Mickey went now.  It was L-shaped and fit nicely into the little corner he’d claimed at his office space, because he now had a job that required some office time.  Mandy had found it, probably in the same thrift shop where she’d furnished half his apartment.  Ron had sanded and restained it and Ian had let them in one afternoon while Mickey was visiting his parole officer.  He’d bitched a little, insisting that it was too much, but in the end, he’d only been able to say thank you.  

Damn, he hoped Mandy married that dude.  

The desk was pretty organized, but a pile of invoices for roofing material still sat on one corner, ready to send to the co-op’s elected treasurer.  In the other corner sat a copy of a study guide for the GED.  That was another present from Mandy.  He wasn’t sure how he felt about that one yet.  He wasn’t saying no, though.

Suddenly, a lot more seemed possible.  

He spent about an hour making some calls to local tree removal companies, settling on one who could come out early this evening to give him an estimate.  Yev talked him into a quick game of Candyland, which the kid won fair and square, before they had to collect all of his crayons and shit and head off to the Alibi.  Svet’s typical tone of indifference was still firmly in place when he dropped the kid off, but the genuine gratitude in her eyes made him wonder if their inevitable custody discussion wouldn’t go better than he thought.  

He touched base with the tree guys and collected the estimate when he got back, shooting all the documents off to Tony via email like he was all official and shit. A few hours with a rake and wheelbarrow had the co-op lawn looking neat and clean again and he headed down into the basement to check on the gauges and filters on the HVAC system. He smiled to himself as ran an assessing eye over all the meters.  He’d lived without central air in his life for too long.  Now he babied this machine.  

And that was it.  Day over.  He jumped in the shower and cleaned himself up, throwing on more of the fancy shit Mandy had bought him and chucking a few more clothes and necessities into a backpack.  Then he locked his little apartment up and headed out into the night.  

It wasn’t a short walk but the night temperatures were cooler now and the air was just on the safe side of brisk.  The sun was heading down by six thirty when he finally walked through the gate of the white picket fence that now surrounded the Gallagher house and climbed the steps to the porch.  He hesitated for just a moment outside the front door, still a little uneasy about walking in without knocking, but hell, who was there to give a shit?  Now that Lip was practically living at his girlfriend’s place, the only people left in the little blue house on Homan were Fiona and Liam.

The little guy himself met him as he walked into the living room, barreling down the front stairs as he turned the corner. 

“You wanna play  _ Call of Duty _ ,” he asked, his eyes wide and excited.  The kid wasn’t so little, Mickey had to admit as he looked him over.  In fact, he was just over five feet now.  For a second, Mickey felt old as fuck.

“Don’t even think about it, little man,” a no nonsense voice called from the kitchen.  He looked up to see Fiona’s head stuck out into the doorway, sending Liam a meaningful glare, “You’ve got an essay due in English tomorrow and don’t think I don’t know it’s only half written.  Get up there on that computer and get it done.  Now!”

Liam’s groan was loud and authentic but he didn’t hesitate as he turned up the stairs.  Mickey watched him go, then glanced back towards the kitchen.  

“I’m gonna go throw my shit in Ian’s room,” he called back.  Fiona appeared to be flipping through a pile of mail but she paused long enough to offer him a quick nod of the head.  

He thought about that simple nod as he sat on Ian’s bed, in the room that had once been Frank’s and then Fiona’s.  The Gallagher’s played an endless game of musical rooms, it seemed, but right now, with Lip finally out with Sierra and Deb going on three years with Neil, it was Liam who had the little room at the back.  The two rooms in the hallway belonged to Ian and Carl, who was currently back at his senior year of military school.  And Fiona had moved into the front room, the room Mickey had always associated with Ian.  It was a real master bedroom now, with a new rug and a real bed and everything. 

It was nice.  Fucked up, but nice.  The Gallaghers were doing okay, building real lives for themselves.  The signs of it were all around him.  And now it was Ian’s turn to leave the nest.  Mickey tried not to let his thoughts run to the money Ian had given him at the border, but he could never quite let go of the simple fact that Ian had handed him his whole life’s savings in that moment, and that was probably why he was still living at home.  Mickey didn’t know if that was true or not really, but his conscience sure loved to bring it up and throw it in his face.  

His conscience was the only thing that did try to goad him with it, though.  Ian never did.  And that brought him back to Fiona’s little nod.  Mickey wasn’t stupid.  Fiona was, by necessity, the reigning south side queen of hypervigilance  She had never had an easy time accepting any of the roles that Mickey had played in her brother’s life.  She had feared and loathed him like she feared any agent of chaos that wandered too close to her precariously perched family.  

But that had been the old Fiona.  If the Gallagher clan was on an upward trajectory of stability, it was once again their default matriarch who led the way.  From what Ian had told him, Fiona hadn’t had the easiest ride towards the “normal” she’d always strived for, but when she’d finally settled there, she’d settled to stay.  One only had to look around to realize that. While the little blue house had never been the hell hole that Mickey and his siblings had called home, it had been as hard hit as any Southside residence.  Now, it was clean, freshly painted, and part of the overall neighborhood uptick.  Mickey still had some pretty mixed feelings about the Southside’s sudden revival, but he wasn’t exactly sorry that all the people he cared about were no longer living in squalor.  

He had mixed feelings about Ian’s older sister, too, but he wasn’t stupid or blind.  He wasn’t going to sit there and deny that she’d sacrificed like hell so that one day, she and her family could dig their way out of the shit heap.  He didn’t fucking need her approval.  

But he wouldn’t mind having it.

All he wanted, all Ian wanted, was the opportunity to capitalize on the chance they’d discussed on Kev’s back stairs, the chance to build a calm, uneventful, normal life together.  Didn’t seem too damn hard but Mickey was wiser than that now.  This relationship shit took work.  It took commitment and it took a lot of fucking support and they were gonna do a whole lot better if they had that from both sides of their families.  

So the nod mattered.  They needed Fiona on their side. 

It didn’t seem too impossible. Hell, they’d won over Lip and Iggy.

With that thought, he stood and headed down the stairs.   

The kitchen smelled amazing.  There were real potatoes boiling in a pot on the stove, real asparagus sauteeing in a pan, and if he had to guess, real steak broiling in the oven.  

“Can you set the table?” Fiona asked, drawing him into their family dinner time as if his presence were a given.  She was wearing an apron over her work clothes, her feet stuffed in worn, comfy slippers as she drained the potatoes into the sink.  “Liam needs to finish that damn paper before I kill him.”

Mickey only nodded, navigating his way around the kitchen with old familiarity.  “Who’s coming?” He asked as he grabbed knives and forks out of the drawer.  

“Just the three of us,” she replied offhandedly, “but grab an extra plate so I can leave some in the fridge for Ian.” She glanced over her shoulder, “You never know if he’ll be hungry or not after work.”

There was a tone of commiseration in her voice that he appreciated but he was still a little overwhelmed that a dinner with just him rated steak.  He wasn’t complaining though.  He grabbed the plates and left them in a stack by the counter.  “What do you want to drink?”

“I’ll take one of the beers you brought the other night,” she answered, as she forked the asparagus over in the pan, “Liam’ll want some iced tea.”  He nodded, grabbing two beers out of the twelve pack he dropped in their fridge the other night.  He popped off the caps and put them down on the table as Liam thundered down the stairs.

“You done?” his sister asked him pointedly.  

The little guy rolled his eyes dramatically but still gave an affirmative head nod.  He walked to the counter and grabbed two of the plates that Fiona was dishing up, sliding one into the seat that Mickey was starting to recognize as his.  A lump caught in his throat as he watched Liam take his own seat and look up at him expectantly.

It felt good, this acceptance from Ian’s family. Weird, but good.  He just wished he could relax into it more, but at this point, that was still somewhat beyond him. Mickey was still trying to relearn how to trust Ian.  Trusting his family was going to take a while more.

He wanted to, though.  That was the real shock.  He wanted to have a group of people that he could relax around, that would have his back.  His siblings gave him that, even his crazy ass brothers, but they were still so new to this game.  The Gallaghers had been learning the ropes of normal for a couple of years now.  They were getting kind of good at it.

Just look at their fucking house.

He ate while Liam alternated between gabbing about school and shoveling food into his mouth.  The little guy didn’t expect much in the way of conversation.  He only seemed to need a willing ear, which Mickey was more than happy to give.  Across the table, Fiona was eating and reading Liam’s essay on the kid’s little laptop.  She finally looked up with a satisfied smile.

“It looks good,” she said, handing the computer back to Liam, “And it would’ve been just as good if you’d finished it two days ago, like I asked.”

Liam had the grace to look sheepish.  “Can I play my game now?” he asked hopefully, glancing at Mickey out of the side of his eye.  

“You can for twenty minutes, but I need to talk to Mickey.”

What the fuck?

Mickey choked down his nerves as he watched Liam grumble and run back up the stairs with his computer in his hand.  He glanced back across the kitchen table, but Fiona’s eyes were still fixed on the stairs. What was this bullshit?  Was she playing some kind of game?  Was she about to tell him to get the fuck out of her house and stay away from her brother?

There was a nervous tick in Fiona’s jaw, but her overall demeanor was calm.  Mickey stared at her assesingly, but a part of him relaxed and his back began to resettle against the chair.  He breathed in slowly through his nose, letting the air leave his lungs in one long, drawn out breath.  It suddenly occurred to him that Fiona wanted to ask him a favor.  

“How’s work?” she asked, and there was genuine interest on her face.

“It’s good,” he replied carefully, cautiously.  “It pays the bills, you know.”

She nodded, staring down at the table.  “Ian tells me you might start your GED.”

He drew in another breath, but controlled it on the way out.  A part of him was immediately suspicious, wanting to demand what Ian had told her, why they were discussing him.  Another part was irrationally content that he was the subject of Ian’s thoughts.  But he still wanted to know where this was going.  

“I might,” he offered in a careful, non-committal voice, “We’ll see how it goes.”

Fiona nodded again, and her face was careful, too.  

“If you started it, would it be a big time commitment?”

Now he was really getting nervous.  Where the fuck was this going?

“Fiona?”

“Yeah?” She looked up, a nervous tick in her jaw pulsing again.

“Whatever it is you want to ask me, can you just spit it the fuck out?”

Mickey watched as the corner of her lips quirked up, the composed business woman’s veneer finally cracking as the southside hood chick’s street savvy bubbled back up to the surface.

“Alright, fuck it.  I want to know if you’ll work with me.”

Mickey could feel his brows furrow.  “What the fuck you talking about?” he asked, his voice alight with genuine confusion, “I’ve got a pretty good job…”

“No, no, I’m not asking you to quit the co-op or anything,” Fiona stated quickly, leaning forward against the table.  “Hell, Ian never shuts up about how good you’re doing there.”

“Okay,” he replied hesitantly, “Then what the hell are you talking about.”

She sighed.  “My building’s doing okay but I had some crazy ass tenants in there.  Hell, I still have a bunch of them.”

“Are you looking for me to be your debt collector?” he asked, half offended, half intrigued.  

She laughed.  “No, we worked all that shit out.  They’re all paying pretty regular now.  But the place, it needs some work.  Just general upkeep, you know.”

He nodded, suddenly seeing where she was going.  “You want me to manage your building, too?”

“Just maintenance.  I’ll worry about the bills and all that.  I’m thinking of buying a second building a few blocks over and I won’t be able to be there as much.  They need someone they can trust to keep an eye on things.  

I think it would be a good fit,” she continued, letting her eyes drift down to the table.  “Just think about it, okay?  Talk to Ian?  We can discuss specifics if you decide it’s something you’d want to do.  I really do think it could work, though.  I know they say it’s risky for family to work together but…”

“We’re family now?” He cringed inwardly at the aggression in his voice but Fiona didn’t even flinch.  Instead, she took a long pull from her beer bottle and leaned her elbows up on the table again.

“Look,” she said simply, leaning forward against the table again and meeting his gaze, “You and me, we’re family.  I know you probably think I hate you, but I don’t.  It’s just, I don’t know…” she leaned back again, taking another sip and fixing her gaze at the bottle when she put it down on the table.  “I don’t have to tell you how hard it was, trying to keep us together, keep us fed.  You’ve been there, so you know.  I was so scared when he first got sick.  All I could see was my mother, and all the hell she’d put us through for years.  And you were there for him, but you weren’t listening to me, you weren’t doing it my way, and I resented the fuck out of that because it meant I wasn’t in control.  Then he got arrested, ran away, and even though that was on Sammy and Monica and even on him, I just laid all of it at your feet.  You were in prison, then you were gone.  It made it so easy to put it all on you.” She paused, took a breath.  Mickey twisted his fingers around his own beer bottle and waited, never breaking his stare.

“But it wasn’t on you.  I know that now. I’ve known it for awhile.” Her eyes took on an earnest sheen.  “He’s been doing real good for a couple of years now, taking his meds, seeing his shrink.  He’s been healthy, even content, but he hasn’t been happy.  And I’m not stupid or blind.  I know it’s because he isn’t happy without you.  He wants to be with you forever.”

“We haven’t talked about that shit,” he mumbled, letting his eyes fall.

“Well, I’m not butting in for once, but I hope you will.  Because you’re his family.  I’m his family by blood but you’re his family by choice.  And that makes you mine, too.  All the shit you’ve been through, you’ve earned our loyalty.”

“But the job is separate from all of this,” she said emphatically, her tone lightening a bit, “I’m not telling you all this to get you to take the job or trying to get you take the job in some fucked up attempt to fix things.”  She stood up suddenly, grabbing their plates.  He stood, too, helping her carry the stuff back into the kitchen.  They moved around each other silently for a few minutes, cleaning the little space up as they both dealt with their own thoughts.  

Fiona shut off the water in the sink and turned to lean back against the counter, facing Mickey as he stood awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen floor.  

“I’m gonna head up to bed,” she said, picking up a pile of paperwork from the counter, “Just give it some thought, okay?” She swept by him, letting her hand rest on his shoulder for a moment as she passed.  He heard her footsteps as she headed up the stairs, heard the muted voices as she and Liam talked in the room above him.  He heard their doors shut and the house settle and he continued to stand in the little kitchen, a warm feeling in his chest.

The small lamp he’d left lit on Ian’s dresser snapped off just after midnight.  He came half awake immediately as the bed dipped and warm arms wove their way around him.  He relaxed back into the body behind him, letting Ian contour their limbs together.  

“Your hands are still shaking.” he muttered as he linked their fingers together.  

“Just the meds.  Don’t panic.  You know it’ll pass.”

“Fiona left you dinner.”

“I ate it,”

He nodded.  “Shift okay?”

“Nothing major.” Ian slid closer, burrowing into the nape of his neck.  “How about you?  You’re night alright?.”

“It was interesting.” He turned his head slightly, “Fiona wants me to manage her building.”

He felt Ian stiffen in surprise.  “Oh yeah?  What’d you think of that?”

He turned over more, until he could just catch the green eyed gaze over his shoulder, “I thought maybe you and I could talk about it,” he said meaningfully, “like, tomorrow or some shit?”

Ian didn’t answer right away but his arms tightened slightly.  “Yeah,” he said finally, his voice relaxed as he drew Mickey closer, “Yeah, we can talk tomorrow.”

Mickey could feel the smile against his neck.  

*************************************************************************************

Colin was the only one who attended the sentencing.  Seventy-five years.  Eligible for parole in fifty.  Colin told him Terry looked calm as the sentence was read.  Mickey couldn't bring himself to care.  The old man could rage or whither for the next half a century.

Mickey was done giving a fuck.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. At first, I worried that this might seem OOC for Fiona but ultimately, I don't think it is. This is who Fiona can be when she's at her best, I think.  
> 2\. The last chapter received a number of comments concerning this story drawing to a close. It is getting there, but not yet. There is still one major plot arch that needs to happen. We have at least four more chapters to go.  
> 3\. I joined a Gallavich oriented page on Facebook, but I created a new account to do it and Facebook keeps kicking me off, saying they need to verify the account (not sure why exactly, but I do watch the news so I have my suspicions). Anyway, I'd tried to post this there originally but I'm going to ask here since I can't access the site right now:
> 
> I have one more idea for a canon compliant post S7 fic, but after seeing the S8 trailer, I just don't know if I have it in me to write it. I've never written off canon before, but I really don't know if I want to watch S8. I'm thinking I might transition into AUs. And so I'm wondering, are there any Dragon Rider's of Pern Gallavich stories? And would anyone be interested in one? Because I see A LOT of potential.


	18. Sleep My Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian and Mickey have "The Talk".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A somewhat short and sweet chapter.

**October 24, 2019**

The comforter that Mandy had found for the bed was a simple plaid, gray, slate blue, and white.  It was nice and kept them warm now that the weather was turning so cold.  It was pulled up now, the bed neat and smooth.  Ian’s stint in the army may have been short lived but there were some things that had been permanently impressed upon him and the rigid maintenance of his own space had been one of them.  Anything that he could put to order gave him a sense of stability, and a neatly made bed and clean home were two of those things.  He’d really begun cultivating this organization after he’d started to balance his meds and see a shrink with general regularity.  He’d had his own room at the old house for awhile now and that had helped. 

But the room he was staring at now was different.  It was neat and organized to his ideal specifications.  It was full of his stuff.

But it wasn’t his room.  At least, not for real.  He could bring everything he owned in the universe over here.  He could arrange everything to exactly as he wanted it, sleep here curled around Mickey’s warm body every night, but it still wasn’t his room.  It was Mickey’s room.  And it would stay that way until one of them finally grew some balls and started the conversation.  

Instead, they were both avoiding it.  They  _ were _ living together, there was no way either of them could deny that.  Pretty much all of Ian’s worldly possessions were over here now.  They were unpacked and carefully tucked away all around the bedroom, kitchen and bathroom of the apartment.  Ian had also begun subtly handling all of the food shopping so he was making some kind of financial contribution, and Mickey never raised a word of protest.  They split cooking duties and Mickey helped maintain Ian’s cleaning and organization regiment automatically.  It was these little things that allowed them to live a life together without ever actually discussing it.

Ian sighed and leaned against the doorframe.  It wasn’t as if they hadn’t talked at all.  Actually, they’d hashed out a lot of shit over the past month.  When Fiona had rolled out her big joint work venture plan, Mickey had talked it through with him before he’d decided to accept.  And when Rita proposed that Ian start working towards his paramedic certification, he’d returned the favor.  It had felt good, sharing these types of big decisions, but while Ian was grateful for the steps they’d taken, it still wasn’t enough.

He was staring at the bed.  Or, more precisely, he was thinking specifically about the mattress.

He’d spent a hell of a lot of time with that mattress lately.  Sure, a good deal of it was dedicated to pounding Mickey into it, but that wasn’t really where the problems lay.  It was when they were just sleeping or lying awake joking and bullshitting together that the mattress really became a problem.  

If he was honest, the mattress sucked.  It really fucking sucked.  It was old and collapsed and beat to shit.  Who the hell knew how long it had been in the Milkovich house before they’d grabbed it this summer.  He hated it, hated the the way he could feel the springs through the worn material, the way it interrupted their talks with annoying creaks and groans.  So he’d made a bitchy off-hand comment about it in the locker room at the station one day and his partner Sue had queried, “If you hate it so much, why don’t you just get a new one?”

It was an intriguing and surprisingly difficult question to answer.  Why didn’t they?  He hated the mattress but truthfully, the idea of replacing it had never occurred to him.  He could totally afford it but the residual monetary vigilance from his childhood always seemed to rear its head, making such decisions seem unnecessary and indulgent.  It was a dumb fuck mindset.  His sister had gone ahead and replaced both her and Liam’s beds about the same time she started fixing up a lot of the old place and if Fiona, generally the thriftiest person that he knew, could make herself spring for a new bed, then he could, too.  

It could be awesome, actually.  Sue had made him look at a few of his options online while they were between calls.  He didn’t know what it would be like to fuck on memory foam but he had a feeling it would be amazing.  

But he and Mickey could fuck on anything; they’d proven that over the years. What he really wanted was a safe place for the two of them, where they could rest and be vulnerable.  He wanted that place to be comfortable.  He wanted it to be something they built for themselves.  

He wanted them to buy a new bed and he wanted them to do it together, but that was going to lead them into a discussion about their living situation and the status of their relationship.  They’d never be able to avoid that.  Hell, he didn’t want to avoid it anymore.  He was so sick of being scared of this shit, of freaking out and worrying over whether Mickey was suddenly going to decide that Ian had put him through too much, was too much of a risk.  

Mickey wasn’t going to do that.  As if Ian hadn’t known that already, everyone in his life kept telling him so.  So far, he’d driven Trevor, Lip, and Mandy half nuts with all of his bitching.  And now his shrink even looked like she was close to cracking.  She wanted to meet Mickey.  Ian wanted her to meet him, too.  He’d wasn’t naive enough not to recognize that this request was a huge part of his sudden nerves.

They needed to talk.  They needed to settle themselves and be honest and open about this one last crucial thing, because there were always going to be other problems ready to rise up and crash down on them.  Terry had waited until the very last day possible to file an appeal on his sentence, throwing a lot of their peace of mind into chaos.  Peterson had been emphatic that they had nothing to worry about.  The premise of the appeal, improper representation, was asinine.  Ted Shanley was many things, but no one could ever claim the man hadn’t done his due diligence for his client.  And Shanley was gone now.  Terry had access to a public defender for this one appeal and then he was on his own.  Peterson told them they had nothing to worry about.

Ian wished he could feel that confident.  Nothing was ever easy for them.  

He sighed again and headed into the kitchen, poking around in the fridge for the pork chops Mickey had put in there to defrost.  Ian was off for forty-eight straight hours.  He couldn’t even remember the last time that had happened.  One of the good things about Mickey’s job was that he could set his own hours mostly, even with this additional gig with Fi, so at least they got to spend a lot of time together, but Ian wanted and needed a break like this. He wanted them to go buy a new bed together.  He wanted to invite Mickey to come meet his shrink.  

And he wanted to move in, for real, so they could split the bills and the household chores and just build a fucking life together, without a million people and a million unspoken issues getting in the way.  

Mickey walked in about an hour later, as Ian was throwing together some salad.  He was tired and dusty but looked content and he eagerly returned the kiss Ian pressed to his lips.  

“Smells good,” he offered as he gestured towards the pan where the porkchops lay.  “I’m nasty.  Gonna grab a quick shower.” He headed off towards the bedroom.  

Ian finished up the salad and flipped the chops.  He did a lot of the cooking, mostly because he enjoyed it, but Mickey never seemed to mind lending a hand.  Ian was sure the brunette would sometimes rather just chow down on frozen dinners and truthfully, there were times when Ian would prefer to also, but Mickey understood that home cooked stuff was better with Ian’s meds than shit with a lot of preservatives.  It was more work and more money, two things that would probably have driven Mickey nuts back when Ian first met him, but not anymore.  That Mickey had been a scared punk kid who didn’t know what he wanted or give much of a shit about anything.  This Mickey was a grown man.  He wanted Ian healthy, happy, and safe.  Because Mickey loved him.  

Ian needed to be the one to start this conversation.  Mickey had already done enough.  He’d already assumed enough of the risks.  

He served up their dinner on plates in the living room, letting Mick indulge his obsession with HGTV.  Ian smiled inside as Mickey critiqued the different projects the show hosts were pushing on their clients.  Who the hell had ever suspected that Mickey Milkovich would have such strong opinions about curb appeal?

Mickey grabbed the dishes when they were finished.  He cleaned up the kitchen, then came up behind the couch.  Ian offered no resistance when Mickey leaned down and placed a kiss on the side of his throat.  He allowed himself to be tugged over the back of the couch and stripped bare as they made their way slowly back towards the bedroom door.  He absolutely loved Mickey like this, when he was soft and serene and drunk on warm kisses.  This Mickey would pant and cling and mewl against Ian’s neck as their bodies did delicious things to each other.  

Ian had put a lot of thought into how he should start this talk.  And yet, his hips had still been bracketed by Mickey’s thighs and they’d both still been trembling against each other when he suddenly pried his mouth off of Mickey’s, stared down into his blue eyes, and felt the words come tumbling out.

“I want to buy a new bed.”

Mickey’s brow and the corner of his lips had quirked up.  “The fuck you talking about?” he’d asked, amusement bleeding into his voice.

Ian gazed down at him, his stomach warm and panicky as he looped an arm beneath Mickey’s neck and held him close.  “Not the bed exactly,” he explained, relaxing a bit as Mickey’s hands drifted up and down the lines of his back, “Just, like a new mattress.  I mean, this one kind of sucks, right?”

Mickey snorted,  “Kind of?”  He glanced sideways, an assessing look on his face as he considered the expanse of the bed.  “Probably a good idea.  I could do that.  Never had a new fucking bed before.  We could christen it.” He turned back towards Ian with a lascivious smile on his lips, but the grin melted away when he saw the nervous look on Ian’s face.  “What is it?”

Ian could feel tension seeping into the lines of Mickey’s body beneath him and it jolted him to action.  Bringing his other hand up, he cradled the side of the brunette’s face.  “Nothing,” he said firmly, leaning in and brushing a kiss across Mickey’s lips.  “Nothing’s wrong.  It’s just, with the bed…”

“Yeah?”  Mickey sat up a little.

“I mean, you shouldn’t have to pay for it all yourself.  It was my idea and I spend as much time in it as you.  I was just…,” Nerves were making him stumble on his words, “I thought maybe we could buy it together?”

Mickey stared up at him, his eyes unreadable and Ian skin began to prickle with panic, but then Mickey let his head fall back against the pillow and Ian could feel the lines of tension bleed out of his body. 

“You want to buy it together?”

“Yeah.”

“So, like, share it?”

Ian nodded,  “Yeah.”

Mickey nodded, too, thoughtfully and slowly.  “Not a bad idea.  We could share it.”

“It just seems fairer, you know.  I’m in it so much.”

Mickey shifted beneath him and Ian could feel his hands drifting over the planes of his back again.  “And I want you in it.” Blue eyes stared up at him carefully, “but I know that fucking look.  It’s the security shit, right?  You need to feel like it’s yours, too.”

Ian huffed a breath.  “I’m not trying to push or anything…”

“Christ, Gallagher,” Mickey muttered, banging his forehead lightly against Ian’s shoulder, “You’re not pushing shit.  I get it.  You want to feel like you’ve got a...Fuck, can we please stop pretending we’re just talking about the bed?”

Ian felt his lips stretch into a grin.  He shifted his hips, sliding over Mickey’s thigh so that he could rest on his side.  Mickey shifted beside him, turning to face him as Ian ran one hand around him to rest at the small of his back.  Their gaze met and held across the pillow.

“You wanna move in?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, then let’s do it.”

Ian’s arm tightened around him.  “You sure?”

The brunette only nodded, never breaking his gaze.  “I wanted to ask.  I was just worried and shit.  Thought we might be rushing it.”  He let his hand drift up, reaching for Ian’s cheek.  “You think we are?”

“Sometimes.  But not really. I mean, for me, this is all I ever wanted for us.  I’ve wanted it for years.”

Mickey snorted lightly, but his smile was genuine.  “Oh yeah, since when?”

“Since I first visited your ass in juvie.”  Mickey raised a brow at him but Ian just continued, “I used to fantasize the hell out of that shit when you were locked up.  Just the two of us in some little place of our own.  Just working and coming home to each other.  Seemed doable, somehow.  Then your dad happened and I got sick and…” he drifted off, his throat tightening.

Mickey pushed up on an elbow, leaning over him and rubbing gently at his cheek.  

“Don’t do that shit.  We can’t keep going back.”

An unbidden huff escaped Ian’s lips, but he lifted a hand and ran his fingertips over Mickey’s knuckles before he linked their fingers together.

“I know that but I don’t think we’ll ever completely figure that out.  I think it’s going to keep coming up for the rest of our lives and we’re gonna have to deal with it.”

Mickey nodded but his face still looked tense, “Deal with it means we don’t let it ruin shit.”

Ian smiled, leaning up to catch his lips quickly.  “I know that.  Deal with it means we deal.  It means we talk shit out.  It means we get through it, together.  We’re getting better at that, right?”  

Mickey said nothing, but the hard lines of his face relaxed again.

“My shrink wants me to bring you to my next appointment.”

“Yeah?” Mickey rolled slightly, sinking down on the pillow again.  He kept their fingers threaded.

“Would you?”

“Yeah.  Course.”

“Really?” Ian asked, the word flying out of his mouth before he could stop it.  A flash of something that might have been hurt flickered across Mickey’s face but Ian was already using their linked fingers to pull the brunette closer while he fumbled for words.  

“Fuck, I didn’t...I didn’t mean that.  I didn’t mean to sound so surprised…”

“Ian,” Mickey spit out, but Ian could feel himself getting pulled down by apologetic panic.

“I’m an asshole, Mick.  I’m sorry.  I’m so fucking sorry.  After all the shit I put you through, after you tried so fucking hard and got me to a doctor and got me to start taking the meds and I just threw it all in your fucking face…”His voice was thickening but Mickey was already winding his arms around him and drawing his head down to pillow over the tattoo on his chest.

“Don’t,” the brunette whispered against his ear. “Of course I’ll go to your fucking shrink with you.  I’ll go every time if I have to and we can talk about this shit.  Have her help us figure some of it out..  But don’t do this, okay.  This is exactly what I want to avoid, this constant loop of bullshit where we let our past deeds screw with us.”  He ran a hand through Ian’s hair and held him tighter.  “If you really need a reckoning, I’ll give it to you.  We can make a list of everything we’ve ever done to each other and square up.  Would that help?  Would it make you feel better?”

Ian took two slow breaths and twisted his head up so he could meet Mickey’s worried eyes.  “Jesus, I make everything so fucking dramatic.”  He sighed and pushed up, crossing his arms and resting his chin atop them on Mickey’s chest. “It might,” he admitted slowly, “but my doctor would probably say that wasn’t a healthy use of our time.”

“If it’ll help you, I’m down to do it.”

“I know.  And knowing is enough.” He leaned up and kissed Mickey lightly on the lips. “I’m a little fucked up right now.”

“I can see that.  Do you know why?  Is it the Terry bullshit?”

“Probably a little.  A lot.  I just want it to stop already.  Can’t he just be fucking gone?”  
“Ian, he is.”

“But he could…”  
“What,” Mickey interjected, his eyebrow shooting up, “Get out?  The appeal won’t be in front of a jury.  It’ll be in front of a Chicago judge.  He ain’t getting out.”

Ian stared at him.  “You sure?”

“Yeah.”  Long fingers started carding through Ian’s hair. “How are you managing?”

Ian sighed but didn’t hesitate with his answer.  “I’m okay,” he answered simply.  He could feel Mickey stiffen beneath his fingertips and he hurriedly continued, “I really am, okay.  I’m not screwing around anymore.  You know I take my meds and keep my appointments.  You know I do my journaling and shit.” He let his own fingers stroke through Mickey’s hair, rubbing soothing circles on his neck. “I would tell you if shit was getting bad, okay.”

Mickey stared down at him for a long moment before his mouth split and a short laugh tore out of him. Ian blinked up at him.

“What is it?”

The brunette stilled.  “Nothing.  It’s just, I love you but we’re still a fucking mess.”

“That’s funny?”

“Yeah, if you think about it.  Shit. I mean, here you are, all freaking the fuck out because you’re worried I won’t want to come to see your doctor while I’m all screwed up wanting you to be open with me about your treatment and worrying you don’t want to be.  I mean, fuck, Ian.  We’re literally doing this exactly right but it’s so damn foreign to us, we can’t even recognize it!”

Ian stared up at him as his own little laugh escaped him.  

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

Mickey twisted to the side, laying down beside him again.  They sat silently for a moment, just letting their eyes and fingers drift over each other.

“Wanna get the rest of your shit tomorrow?”

Ian nodded.

“Wanna go mattress shopping afterwards?

Ian nodded again.

“Can I tell you something without you getting pissed?  Full disclosure and shit?”

This time Ian could feel himself tense but he nodded again anyway.  There was some stuff he should probably disclose to.  “Yeah,” he muttered, a tinge of nervousness in his voice. “You tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine.”

“Kay,” Mickey clutched his hand.  “You don’t get to get pissed about this.  I mean it.” He breathed in quickly, “ I let Peterson blow me in his office one day.  The day before we cleaned out Terry’s house.”  

Mickey was trying to muster his badass expression but it just wasn’t coming together for him and the sight tore a nervous giggle out of Ian before he could help it.  “Good,” he said lightly, rolling onto his back and dragging a confused looking Mickey across his chest.

“I was a complete fucking wreck back then, remember,” Mickey argued with unnecessary defensiveness.  Ian said nothing, letting his fingers roam over Mickey from neck to ass as the brunette wrapped an arm around his waist.  “Good?”

Ian grinned up at him, “Yeah, good.  You fucking needed it.  You were better after that, less afraid of everything. Hell,  I’d have done it for you myself if you’d have let me.”  He let one long finger slip into Mickey’s cleft, smiling as the brunette shifted against him, drawing in a breath. “Not gonna be jealous of Peterson.  He’s not trying to cause any shit.  Actually,  don’t you think he’s been trying to push us back together this whole damn time.  And besides,” he continued as his fingertip teased at Mickey’s opening, “I thought we just decided we weren’t going to do lists of supposed past offenses.”  

Mickey was pressing back against his fingertip now, and Ian didn’t tease him for long, slipping inside Mickey’s heat.  The brunette shifted instinctively, clambering over him and grinding their hardening shafts together..  

“Used to think it was all the sneaking and danger that got you all hard for me, Gallagher.” he muttered breathlessly as he rode the length of Ian’s long finger inside him.  He grunted as Ian withdrew but a deviously content little smile split his lips as Ian set the tip of his cock against his entrance.  

“It did get me hard,” Ian muttered as he pressed the swollen head inside the other man.  He lay perfectly still, enjoying the sight of Mickey working the full length inside him.  When the brunette was fully seated, however, Ian gripped his hips hard and held him still.

“The fuck you…”

“Shhhhh,” Ian his hand’s spread over the brunette’s hips and ass, kneading them firmly.  “It did get me hard for you,” he repeated, staring up into Mickey’s blue eyes.  “Fighting with you got me hard.  Scamming with you got me hard. But Mick, cooking with you gets me hard.  Adult conversations with you gets me hard.  Fucking moving in with you gets me hard.” He thrust up quickly, loving how Mickey’s eyes fell closed and his mouth opened in response.  “I fucking love you and that’s what get’s me hard.”

There was no holding Mickey back after that, and Ian didn’t even try.  He let his hands be pinned down on either side of his head, let Mickey plunder his mouth and ride his body with ferocity. He let his own cries mix freely with his lover’s as they chased their pleasure in the darkness of the home they were going to make together. 

Mickey lay sprawled loosely across Ian’s chest and thighs as they panted in satisfied exhaustion.  His softening cock hadn’t even slipped from the heat of Mickey’s body yet, but the brunette was already dozing and Ian had one last thing to tell him.

“Since we’re laying all our shit out, Monica left us a fuck ton of meth when she died.  I’m sitting on almost ten grand.”  He grinned when Mickey jerked his head up to stare at him.  “We all swore we wouldn’t touch the money for three years because we didn’t know who’d she stolen it from and if they were going to come looking for it.”

Mickey’s blue eyes looked shocked.  “You shitting me?” he asked.

“Nope.”

Mickey let his forehead fall against Ian’s chest as he shook his head back and forth incredulously.  “Fucking Gallaghers.”

*************************************************************************************

Three days after Halloween, Mickey hung a framed picture his sister had given him on the hallway wall.  It was of him and Ian, taken from the back, as they walked down the sidewalk at dusk.  A plastic pumpkin dangled from Mickey’s hand and Yevgeny hung between them, completely airborne as they each used one hand to swing him into the air.  His Superman cape flapped behind him.  

Every time Mickey walked past the picture, he smiled.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of unplanned porn seems to be worming it's way into this story. I'm usually kind of stingy with the porn because I don't want it to distract from the storyline, but here, it always just makes sense to me. Like, there's no way they weren't going to have sex at this point in the story, and I just didn't realize that when I was outlining. Oh well, whatever. I'm probably the only one worrying about it.
> 
> Things are going to ramp up again for a while now. It's the last loop I'll throw them through, though, I promise. 
> 
> Next Up: Thanksgiving and the stuff hits the fan.


	19. Violent Use

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian and Mickey deal with a twist of fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am deeply apologetic for how long this has taken. First, I was very unhappy with the pacing, timeline, and perspective of this chapter, so I ended up doing something I didn't think I'd ever be brave enough to do. I erased it and rewrote much of it. I'm much happier with it now.
> 
> The bigger reason this is late, though, is because I was active in a couple of key local election campaigns that helped bring positive local leadership to my town, county and region. So please forgive my delay, but I feel this was time well spent!

**November 28, 2019**

There were lights on in most of the houses as Mickey walked through the streets.  All over the neighborhood, people were opening doors and waving goodbye to family.  A part of Mickey wanted to scoff at the sentimentality of holiday cheer, but he wasn’t a hypocrite.  His arms were currently overflowing with a well-swaddled, half-conscious three year old and two bags of leftovers.  He’d just made his own escape from family festivities.  And he didn’t even mind.

He was getting better at this family shit.  

Mickey believed in giving credit where credit was due and if there was one thing he thought he deserved some recognition for, it was his capacity to deal with the Gallagher clan’s celebratory tendencies.  Birthdays were big with them but holidays were when they really pulled out all the stops.  

It still kind of confused him.  Well, maybe confused was the wrong word but he just didn’t have any context for this shit.  Milkovich family celebrations had tended towards the dark side.  You celebrated when you avoided a beatdown, when you pulled off a big job, when someone got out of jail.  Svetlana, Mandy and Ian had pulled together a half-assed Christmas thing during the year they’d all been living at his family’s place but that was pretty much it.  

Unless you counted Yev’s shit show of a baptism.  

He didn’t.

But the Gallaghers loved to celebrate. They loved to get together and eat and drink and hold impromptu fucking dance parties in their living room.  And while he’d once hugged the wall with his arms crossed the whole time, daring anybody to come near him, the whole merry fucking band of them were finally starting to wear him down.  

Hell, he’d caved. He’d gone full blown family man today and he wasn’t ashamed about it.  

Ian had started it all with an off-hand question that had caught Mickey completely off guard.   _ Did he think Svet would mind if they took Yev with them to Fiona’s on Thanksgiving? _  Would she mind?  How the fuck was he supposed to know?  And since when were they going to Fiona’s for Thanksgiving?  The questions had flitted through his head but he hadn’t said a word because who was he kidding?  Of course they were going there for Thanksgiving.  It was a foregone a conclusion, just like it had been at Halloween when he’d been dragged around the neighborhood with Yev and Ian and Deb and Frannie and Kev’s kids.  And he’d loved everything about it.

He’d loved this, too.  He’d loved helping Ian bake pies and pack them into a cooler to bring over to Fiona’s place.  He’d loved sitting at the Alibi with Yev, watching the Macy’s balloons go by on tv while Svet peppered him with instructions he already knew.  He’d loving walking up the back steps of the Gallagher house, opening the door to heat and the scent of turkey.  

Mickey paused on the sidewalk as he felt Yev slip a little.  Juggling the plastic bags over one arm, he managed to pull the kid’s hat down a little further over his ears.  Yev’s blue eyes opened for a second but he only offered Mickey a sleepy smile before he conked back out on his shoulder.  The kid was dead weight when he slept, but Mickey couldn’t bring himself to care.  He’d deal with the weight a hundred times over because it meant that his son felt safe enough to sleep in his arms.  Hefting the little guy back up on his hip, Mickey reached into his coat pocket, only to get hit with the slightest tinge of annoyance.  He’d left the fancy new phone Mandy had bought him on somewhere in the apartment this morning.  At least, he sure as fuck hoped it was there.  

He’d hardly needed the damn thing today anyway.  Ian had taken enough pictures to cover the whole family and he’d insisted on showing Mickey every damn one.  He’d been treated to thirty pictures of Lip and Vee trying to carve the turkey, fifty of Lucas, Jemma and Yev playing Uno, a two minute video of Liam’s speaking part in his fancy ass private school’s upcoming holiday show.  Christ, it was like he was trapped in a fucking Hallmark movie.

But he’d loved that shit, too.

He used his foot to push open the gate to Svet’s little condo community and walked up the path.  It was a little place but the neighborhood was quiet and safe.  The porch light was on and he wrapped his boot lightly against the bottom of the door.

“You are back,” his ex-wife said succinctly as she held the door open and ushered him into the small but cozy living room.  He smiled a little as he glanced around.  The place was full of Yev; his toys, his drawings, his face smiling down from pictures on the wall.  He was grateful that, whatever else Svetlana might be responsible for, she loved the fuck out of their kid.  

He and Ian’s place was starting to look a lot like this.  He liked that, too.

“You want me to take him up?” he asked as he jostled Yev up on his hip again and fumbled with the leftovers bags.  “Shit in here is for you.”

“Is food?” she asked, surprise in her voice.

“Yeah, leftovers and shit from Fiona.” he headed towards the stairs as Svetlana took the bag towards the little kitchen.  

He stripped off Yev’s coat, hat and shoes, glad that he’d made the kid throw on his pajama pants and pee before they left Fiona’s.  That was some grade A parenting shit right there, and he didn’t mind patting himself on the back.  He pulled the covers up over his sleeping son and killed the lights, leaving the door open a crack as he headed back down stairs.  

Svet was munching on some leftovers from her spot on the couch.  “You say ‘Thank you’,” she said, holding up the plate.  

“Yeah, I’ll tell her.”  With a nod of his head, he turned towards the door.

“You should call Uber,” 

“I left my fucking phone at home.  But I’m good.  It’s a nice night to walk.” 

And it was.  His breath froze in clouds in front of him as he headed down the sidewalk, feeling full and content.  They’d stuffed themselves this afternoon.  There’d been mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes and two different kinds of stuffing.  There’d been Ian’s pies and Sierra’s brownies for dessert.  And there’d been a huge turkey, a point of pride for Fiona and Lip.  There’d been some brief talk of past holiday drama but it had been quick and Mickey had been too busy cutting up Yevgeny’s dinner to pay much attention.  No real reason anyway.  He knew enough about the bullshit Monica had pulled.

Frank had rolled in around five, just long enough for Fiona to hand him a bag of food and push him right the hell back out the door.  The old fuck had yelled and brazened but he’d gone without too much of a problem.  Ian hadn’t said anything, just leaned a little heavier against Mickey’s shoulder as they sat side by side on the couch.  For his own part, Mickey had just shrugged and kept his head down.  He’d lived in awe of his own old man too long to pass any judgment but still, he was glad they were all finally keeping the old drunk at a healthy distance.

It had been close to six when Ian had headed up to his old room and come down in his work uniform.  He’d been lucky to get most of the holiday off but his next shift had been set to start at seven.  He’d pressed quick kisses to Mickey and Yev’s cheeks as he’d headed out the door.

Mickey had contemplated heading out, now that Ian was gone.  But then he just...hadn’t.  Because Yev was playing Uno with the twins again and Fiona was telling him a story about a tenant they mutually hated and before he knew it, they were cleaning the fucking kitchen together and chatting like old war buddies while Lip and Sierra boxed up leftovers.  It hadn’t been long before they were all just sitting around the kitchen, bullshitting like friends.

Like fucking family.

He liked this feeling.  It still shocked the hell out of him, but he liked it.  A lot.  He liked keeping a cooking and cleaning schedule with Ian.  He liked walking his kid to the park.  He liked figuring out holiday plans with Ian, Svet and Mandy.  His little sister was with Ron today, and his brothers had both begged off, not quite ready to take this big a leap into familial normalcy.  They’d shown some interest, though, when Mandy had suggested hosting their next Thanksgiving at her little apartment.  

By next year, they’d be ready for this shit.

The temperature was dropping a little and he was glad to make it to the co-op’s front door.  The apartment was mostly dark but Ian had left the little light over the sink on and it cast a low, warm glow over the kitchen and living room.  Mickey let himself lean back against the front door and survey the space before him.  He was the only person home but the two rooms were littered with Yevgeny’s pictures.  His toys were stacked neatly in a bin by the kitchen door.  The new paramedic handbook Ian was reading lay on the coffee table and ratty old ROTC sweatshirt lay across the back of the couch.  The room was empty but their presence was everywhere and Mickey never felt alone.  

He discarded his warm layers in the hallway closet and headed into the kitchen with the plastic bag he still carried.  Opening it up, he took the pie tins out and shoved the rest of the leftovers into the fridge for tomorrow.  He spent a few minutes cleaning up the little kitchen space, putting the tins and the mixing bowls from the drying rack away.  He left the little light over the sink on as he headed down the hallway towards their room.

The new mattress gave gently as he sank down on the edge of it and yanked off his boots.  The bed had to have been one of Ian’s most brilliant ideas.  This thing was fucking glorious.  Mickey had insisted they get some new sheets for it; really new, Target new.  The combination of the awesome bed and the clean, fresh cotton made sleeping incredible.  It made other things incredible, too, but then, Mickey doubted they’d ever let the quality of their bed stop them from fucking like champions.  

He leaned back, letting his hand drift over the bed covers appreciatively.  His fingers brushed something hard and he grabbed at it instinctively, recognizing it’s smooth edges. He smirked but breathed a small sigh of relief.  At least he hadn’t lost the fucking phone.  

He thumbed at the home button indifferently, but a tight knot formed in his chest when the screen lit up.  Nineteen missed calls.  

_ The fu… _

His fingers felt numb and sludgy as they fought with the password screen.  He fucked it up twice before he put down the phone and stood up to take a deep breath.  He had to calm the hell down.  He couldn’t afford to lock himself out.  He stared down at his hands for a moment, willing them to stop shaking as he breathed in and out slowly, mimicking Ian’s calming exercises until his head cleared a bit.

Okay, he could do this.  He would do this.  He picked up the little machine and stared at it hard as he slowly punched the numbers.

The home screen appeared and Mickey breathed out fast, but his relief was short lived.  Missed message after missed message.  Missed call after missed, all from the same two numbers.

_ Tony Markovich _

_ Bryce Peterson _

_ Tony Markovich _

_ Bryce Peterson _

_ Tony Markovich _

_ Fuck _

Fuck.

His shaking fingers jabbed senselessly at the screen until the message box finally opened.  He stared at the first text, feeling his body go numb and his beautiful new world start to fracture around him.

Faintly, he heard a pounding at his front door.  

*************************************************************************************

**December 5, 2019**

“I want you to start carrying the fucking gun.  I’m not fucking asking.”

Ian leaned back against the rear of the elevator and shut his eyes, letting the strange, airless lift sensation wash over him.  They’d had this conversation twenty or thirty times so far, but who was fucking counting?  He could feel Mickey pacing around the small space as they headed up towards  the ninth floor of Cook County Hospital, and he bit down on his lip, resolving that he would keep his mouth shut and let Mickey get his rant out.  It was the easiest way to calm him down.  

But really, who the fuck was he kidding?  Even if Mickey did calm, it would only be a temporary fix.  He hadn’t had a real handle on his emotions for the last seven days.  

In the darkness behind his eyelids, Ian thought back to the little room in the police precinct that Tony had herded them all into, one by one.  Ian had been the one raging then, pacing back and forth, frustrated fury coloring his features as he babbled.

“How the fuck could this have happened?  It’s fucking ridiculous.  How could he have fucking escaped?”

Mickey wasn’t really the eye roll type, but if he was, Ian knew he would’ve been on the receiving end of one at that moment.  Instead, it had been Mandy who had shot him a withering glare.

“Really, Ian?” she’d spat incredulously from her seat next to Ron on the run-down police precinct bench.  “You’re actually surprised by this?’

“Who the fuck do you think taught me how to bust out of prison?” Mickey had asked him as he strode across the room.  His voice had been harsh but the hand he’d laid on Ian’s shoulder had felt gentle and grounding in the face of all the crazy that had been running through his head.  “Terry taught us jailbreak techniques like most dads teach their sons about baseball.”

“Jamie’s never broken out,” Ian had heard himself reply petulantly.  

Mickey might have actually rolled his eyes then.  Ian wasn’t sure.

“Jamie couldn’t break out of a fucking paper bag.  Get your head out of your ass,” had come the biting reply from the agitated brunette woman on the bench.  Mickey had only nodded.  

“I should’ve fucking seen this coming,” he’d muttered bitterly, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes in frustration.  

But he shouldn’t have had to see it coming!  Of all the stupid shit Ian was mad about in this whole fucked scenario, that was the one that grated the most.  Mickey had done his job.  He’d given up his security and faced his fears and done exactly what the hell everyone of asked of him and it had landed Terry in jail.  Mickey should be free.  He’d fucking earned it.  And it wasn’t supposed to be his job to worry about keeping Terry locked up.  That’s what the system was for.  That’s what the prison staff got fucking  _ paid _ for.  

But instead, the guards had settled on a skeleton staff over the holidays and a bunch of them had opted to play poker and…

...and you couldn’t give a man like Terry Milkovich that kind of opportunity.  He’d seize it and use it against you before you could blink.  

Well, seize it he sure as fuck had, of course, and now they were all living on a knife’s edge while every cop in Chicago searched for the bastard.  Terry had completely disappeared for almost a week, but he’d never really been gone.  His absence was deliberate, intended to terrorize his kids and Ian’s whole family as they wondered where he’d strike first.  Police protection hadn’t done much to alleviate any of their fears.

And it apparently had its limitations.  Colin couldn’t work and have cops following him everywhere.  It had probably been easy for Terry to lie in wait for his middle son outside his job site and get off a shot before melting away into the darkness.  No one had seen him.  A few of the cops were even trying to sell them on the idea that it hadn’t been Terry at all.  But Mickey wasn’t that naive.  Neither was Ian, not anymore.

And neither were Katherine Gracy or Tony Markovich.  They weren’t going to let that kind of bullshit stand.  Ian wished that made him feel better but as he watched Mickey pace the elevator, he couldn’t feel much beside a wave of rage he was barely managing to contain.  

He could still kill Terry Milkovich.  In fact, it would be even easier for him now.  

The elevator drew to a halt and Mickey started forward as the door slid open, but Ian reached out and yanked him backward.  The brunette tensed momentarily but relaxed quickly into Ian’s arms, giving the redhead the briefest hint of relief from his roiling emotions.  He dropped his head, nudging at Mickey’s cheek with his chin until the brunette turned towards him and let him catch his lips.  

“I’m sorry,” Mickey whispered against his mouth, “I’m not trying to be a fuck but…”

“Shhhh…”Ian let his breath tickle Mickey’s cheeks.  The shorter man let his eyes drift closed as Ian navigated them out the elevator door and into the hallway, “Don’t you apologize to me.   _ You _ don’t have shit to be sorry for.”

He kept an arm firmly around Mickey’s shoulders as they headed up the critical care ward hallway.

Iggy’s profile was visible where he stood, propped against the doorframe about halfway down the hall.  He glanced at them as they approached, a million words flashing through his blue eyes, but he wisely kept his mouth shut and slid over to let them pass.  Mandy was sitting next to the bed, looking exhausted but relatively calm as she clung to Colin’s hand. 

Mickey tensed again as his eyes met his brother’s.  Colin was pale, almost grayish, but he managed to give them a halfway snarky smile.  His left arm was heavily bandaged and wrapped against his chest.  Mickey pulled away, heading to stand by the bed.  He drew up short at the last minute and Ian could almost see the deeply ingrained Milkovich self-preservation instincts butting up against the need to check on his older brother.  

Ian stopped inside the doorway and watched the scene unfold in front of him, his mind drifting back towards the argument he and Mickey had been rehashing on the ride up to the ward.  Mickey wanted them all to be armed at all times, but there were some serious complications with all that.  Ian wasn’t technically allowed to carry a gun on the rig while he worked.  And Mickey was on parole.  No fucking guns.  And who the hell knew if being armed would even help?  Colin hadn’t seen who’d shot him.  He wouldn’t have been able to return fire anyway.  

But still, how the hell were they supposed to just walk around unprotected?  And how long could they keep living on eggshells.  Terry still didn’t know where most of them lived, but he knew the Gallagher house.  Fiona had taken Liam to Deb and Neil’s, but how long could they keep that up?  How long could they all continue to live on a knife’s edge.  It had only been a week and they were all starting to crack around the edges.

Which was exactly what that sadistic fuck wanted, of course.  

Ian leaned back against the doorway as he watched Iggy stride into the room and come to stand beside Mickey.  The four of them were still so new at this, so awkward with their feelings, but they were getting better every day.  There was a real possibility that, if left to their own devices, they might be a halfway normal family one day soon.  

But Terry wouldn’t just piss off and let that happen.  Every time Ian turned around, the bastard was fucking things up.  Now Mandy was having panic attacks.  Now Colin was lying in a hospital bed.  Now Fiona and Liam and Svet and Yev were hunkered down to wait this out like it was a fucking hurricane.  

Now he and Mickey were fighting over whether or not they should carry guns.  

Ian’s rage wouldn’t leave him.  It stayed dark and heavy, coursing through him as a nurse kicked everyone out of Colin’s room as visiting hours drew to a close.  It stayed with him as he sat silently beside Mickey on the El ride downtown, their fingers wound tightly together.  It stayed with him as they walked up the street towards home.

The rage had put him in a tunnel.  Inside his mind, it carried him through all the nooks and hidden corners of the southside, to every little crack that could hide a cockroach like Terry.  Ian was planning a full-on hunt as he followed Mickey up the stairs to the front door of the co-op.

“I’m gonna go check the boiler,”

“Huh,” Ian startled, his mind snapping out of it’s dark depths.  Shit.  Fuck.  What the hell was he thinking?  If they were going to actually get Terry, it wouldn’t be because he went off half cocked.  

“I’m gonna go check the boiler,” Mickey repeated as he turned to look at him.  The brunette’s face was carefully set but a slew of emotions were fighting each other in the blue of his eyes; anger, concern, panic, and above all, the heavy weight of despair.  “Grab me a beer, alright?” He started to turn, then paused, glancing back to where Ian stood.  “When I get back, we need to talk about the gun.”

A sigh welled up in Ian’s chest. The fucking gun.  Ian just needed to tell him.  “Mick, I already decided…”

“Ian.”

The word was low, almost powerless, but it was the very weakness in the voice that shut Ian down so quickly.  It was the voice of Mickey in prison, Mickey curled up and wary on the couch in Mandy’s living room, his eyes shifty and fearful.  It was the voice of a man who knew he was fucked for life, who didn’t dare reach for anything beyond survival.

And just like that, the rage was back.  It shot through every synapse and fired every nerve in Ian’s body.  This was not going to happen. Mickey was not going to retreat into himself again.  He’d come too far.   _ They’d  _ come too far.  They’d bought a bed together, for fuck’s sake.  

Ian had thought prison was enough.  He was wrong.  Even if the cops caught Terry and hauled his ass back to the deepest and darkest of dungeons and threw away the key, this possibility would always hang over them.  It would permeate them.  And the Milkovich kids would never sit at a Thanksgiving dinner table together.  Mickey would never relax into his role as a good dad.  The poison of Terry’s mere existence would sicken it all.

The fucker had to die.  It was the only way.

Ian walked up the last two stairs and stopped in front of Mickey.  He leaned down, resting his hands on the brunette’s tight shoulders and letting their brows meet as he held Mickey’s gaze.

“Okay,” he answered simply, “We’ll talk about the gun.”

Mickey let out a little breath.  His eyes fell closed and his shoulders relaxed fractionally. 

“Yeah?” he asked, but his voice sounded stronger.

“Yeah,” Ian replied, more forcefully.  Reaching over, he grabbed the door handle and ushered them inside, shutting out the freezing cold.  

“Boiler,” Mickey muttered.

“Yeah, I’ll get the beer.”  Ian watched as Ian headed towards the back of the little lobby and disappeared into the basement.  

Ian turned towards their apartment door.  They’d talk about the gun, fine, but Ian had already made up his mind.  What else could he do?  Terry had made his intentions pretty clear.  

Ian turned the lock and pushed open the door, flipping on the light.  His mind was making plans again.  They had a little time, at least.  Terry didn’t know where any of them were, after all.  He’d been locked up when…

Ian stopped in the middle of the living room, a horrifying epiphany fracturing in his overworked mind and freezing all his limbs.  Colin....fuck!  Colin had held that job for over a year now.  Terry hadn’t been fucking paroled yet.  He shouldn’t have fucking known where Colin worked.  But somehow he had known and if he knew that then,  _ fuck _ , who knew what the hell else he might know?  What if he knew where to find Mandy...or Lip...or  _ Svet! _

Ian’s panic made him clumsy and he fumbled his phone as he pulled it out of his pants pocket.  He watched numbly as it tumbled to the floor and bounced across the rug.  His body felt gangly as he knelt down and reached for the little device.

He felt the slight displacement of air the moment before it happened.  There was a high whistle from his left and a single, clear thought flashed through his mind.

_ Something’s gonna hit me in the head. _

Then an explosion of pain.

Then brilliant light.

Then darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Endgame


	20. Some Death to Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we go...

Mickey was still down by the boiler, tucked away in a back room of the basement, when he first felt the telltale hairs rise up on the back of his neck.

Fuck.

He knew that feeling too well and he knew way better than to ignore it.  That feeling had spared him a beating too many times to count.  It had caused him to duck fast enough to dodge a flying beer bottle or beat a safe retreat out the backdoor in the knick of time.  All of his siblings had that instinct to some extent, but Joey’s had always been the least honed.  He had always been the slowest to duck, the last one to flee the scene, the first one to get caught.  As Mickey turned, his intuition now humming, and headed towards the stairs, he let his mind drift back to his oldest brother.  Joey’d taken the fall for their old man on a major weapons charge only a couple of weeks after he and Jamie had helped Mickey chase Ian all over the South Side, following the Mandy bullshit.  He’d been locked up ever since and probably would be for the rest of his life.  

Mickey had known the truth of this story forever, but for the first time, he felt genuine fury at the way Terry had preyed on his own kid’s weaknesses and fucked up sense of loyalty.  The old man had stolen his own son’s life away and never given it a second thought.  

And now he was trying to do it again.  Mickey knew it.  That distinctive tingle at the back of his neck was too fucking obvious to ignore.  Mickey’s pulse quickened as he scrambled up the stairs and out into the lobby again, shutting the heavy, steel-plated basement door behind him and locking it firmly before he headed towards his front door.

He needed to call his sister.  And his brothers.  And...fuck, he needed to call everybody because who the fuck knew who…

He realized the danger a second after he opened the door and strode inside. The apartment was oddly silent, but that couldn’t be right.  Even when Ian was just sitting and reading, Mickey could always sense the gentle hum of the redhead’s potential energy.  Now, though, the stillness was almost tangible, heavy and cloying in its wrongness.  Mickey stilled, glancing around, his eyes shiftily searching for Ian, his panic barely contained.

It was pure reflex that caused him to duck, and he wasn’t quite fast enough.  The descending pistol, if that’s what it was, missed his temple but caught him across the crown of his head.  A spectacular ricochet of blinding pain exploded in his head but he managed to stay conscious and upright as he stumbled away.  He saw the second blow coming and he managed to dodge this one, too, but it caught him the jaw, sending more shards of agony into his brain.  

Mickey felt his knees begin to buckle beneath his weight.  His stomach was rebelling, waves of nausea washing over him as his vision swam.  He might have lost the battle then, collapsing into a helpless heap, left vulnerable to the nonexistent mercy of his own father, but at that moment, his gaze fell on Ian’s still, prone form.  The taller man was sprawled in a heap on the far side living room floor, blood trickling down one cheek.  He was slumped by the wall, next to Mickey’s desk.  Beneath his head, Mickey could barely make out two of Yev’s drawings that Ian must have ripped down as he hit the wall and fell.  The red of Ian’s blood was mixing with the brightly colored crayon.

Mickey’s vision suddenly became as red as the blood.  

He fought down his nausea as he rolled to his feet, balling his fists as he went.  His eyes landed on his father immediately, staring back at him from near the front door.  The old man’s face was aggressive and sneering, but Mickey could see the hesitation in the lines of his body and a sharp thrill of elation shot through him.  Terry’s nose was still off-center. Mickey concentrated on that, to keep himself from weaving on his feet.  Terry was opting for caution, instead of his typical raging bull approach.  For the first time, Mickey felt like it might have been a fair fight.  

But Terry didn’t fight fair, of course, which was why Mickey was now fighting for consciousness.  He dashed left, nearly losing his footing as he put the couch between them.  The sudden movement drew Terry’s attention towards him and away from Ian’s helplessly sprawled body.

“You playing house now, you and this faggot?” the old man spit at him.

Mickey glanced back towards Ian.  He was breathing but he wasn’t moving at all.  Mickey glanced back at his father’s mottled face. He needed to keep the bastard’s rage fixed on him.  

“This is  _ my _ home,” he spit back, letting naked contempt bleed into his voice. “It’s mine legit.  I worked for it.   It’s all mine and has nothing to do with your ass.”

Off to the side, Mickey noticed Ian’s head start shaking back and forth.  He was waking up.  Mickey wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

“You mean the job you’ve got working for fucking cops?”  Terry’s fury only increased as he spit out the word.

“Yeah, working for cops.” he replied, his voice sarcastically light.  “And not just any cops, southside cops.”  he took several steps back into the kitchen.  Ian was awake!  His head was turned towards Terry, watching the proceedings with hot anger in his green eyes.  Desperate to keep the old man’s attention off his boyfriend, Mickey shifted.  He took a few more steps back and finally,  _ finally,  _ Terry started moving forward towards him

The gun was still turned, butt end out, in Terry’s hand as he carefully rounded the couch.  Mickey swayed again but kept his feet as he stepped back into the kitchen, putting the little table and chairs between them.  He glanced at the gun but Terry didn’t seem to notice, as if he’d forgotten about the weapon he held limply in his hand.  Mickey didn’t know if he felt relieved or sick when he realized that Terry didn’t want to shoot him.  No, that would have been too quick, too impersonal.  

What Terry wanted to do was finish what he’d started on two previous occasions.  He wanted to beat him to death with his bare hands.  He wanted to crack his own kid’s head open and watch him bleed. 

But still the old man hesitated and Mickey couldn’t help but take that as a small victory.  Terry Milkovich might come out on top this day.  It was sure as fuck going that way right now, but Mickey knew now that he’d managed to put fear into his old man’s heart.  It might not matter much in the end, but right now he’d take what he could get.  Now if only he could keep the old fucker distracted long enough for Ian to make it to the door.  

“You fucked up, you know,” he said, keeping his voice light and taunting. “Colin’s going to pull through.”

“This time,” came the furious, immediate reply,  “I’ll get that piece of shit again.”

Mickey couldn’t control the disgusted grimace that flitted across his face.  Terry’s eyes darkened further when he saw it. 

“Don’t you fucking look at me that way, you little fuck.  You think you get to look at me that way?  You think your little faggot ass is better than me?”

“Pretty sure it.”  The words were tumbling out of Mickey now, fury ladden, “You raped my sister and tried to kill my brother.  No fucking contest there.”

Terry’s nostrils flared and he took two steps forward, butting up against the table.  He took a swipe over the surface but Mickey jumped back and to the side, evading the old bastard’s reach.  

“You piece of shit,” the old bastard shrieked in an hysterical voice, “You don’t even get to call them that anymore.  The only reason any of you get to call yourselves kin is because you all came from  _ me _ !  And I’m rejecting your miserable assess.  You hear me.  I’m rending this whole fucking family apart.  And I’ll start with you and that faggot you let rail you like you’re some cock hungry bitch!”

Spit flew from his father’s mouth as he raged.  The old man was so close but Mickey knew he had to draw him even closer.  He had to keep the fucker’s attention fixed on him.  In the living room, he could barely seen Ian crawling back across the floor, his movements slow but increasingly steady.  The redhead was quickly fighting his way back to consciousness.  He looked better, but there was no way he could protect himself if Terry turned his attention back to him, and that was as likely to happen as not.

After Mickey, there was no one Terry hated more than Ian.  

Behind Terry’s back, Mickey saw red head stutter and bump into his desk.  The heavy wooden edge bumped the wall.  Terry started and made to turn but Mickey could hear himself blurting out desperate words before he could stop himself.  

“You know, you sure are obsessed with my faggot ass ways.  Almost makes me wonder…”  

He let his voice trail off, focusing on his breathing and on keeping his footing.  Across the little table, Terry’s eyes went wide and he emitted a deep resonating growl from the pit of his stomach.  Mickey could feel a rush of adrenaline suddenly offset the pain in his head and he balled and raised his fists.  He was probably going to die in the next few minutes, in an awful and painful way, but if Ian could just get out and raise the alarm, if he could just get Tony, then at least Mandy would be safe.  Yev would be safe.   _ Ian  _ would be safe.  

He could die for that.  

Mickey stumbled back against the counter, bracing himself up, when Terry’s growl erupted into a roar.  The table went flying sidewise, batted away by the old man as he charged.  Mickey threw up his fists, tensing to take a punch, when a shower of splinters exploded off to his right.  Terry froze, his own eyes wide in shocked surprise and his balled fists dangling stupidly in the air.  They both turned and stared at the shattered hole the kitchen cabinet.  Mickey’s eyes met his father’s and he read the same realization in the old man’s cold eyes; bullet hole.  But who…

Another shot rang out and Terry spun around off to the left corner of the kitchen.  He clutched at his arm and shrieked profanity laced nonsense as blood seeped through his fingers.

Mickey couldn’t move.  His hazy mind couldn’t quite comprehend what was happening around him.  He glanced over at his father, who was now sprawled beside him against the counter.  The old man made a sickening, high pitched squealing sound, his voice filled with rage and pain, and lunged at him again.  The butt of the gun caught him low behind the ear this time, knocking him off his feet, but as he fell a third shot erupted and his father ducked away, hiding behind his own upraised hands.

Mickey didn’t hesitate.  His vision was really blurring  now, and dark shadows were starting to swarm from every peripheral angle, but he crawled on instinct towards the living room.  Another shot went off and he could hear Terry swearing behind him but he kept on going.  He rounded the corner of the couch as his arms began to buckle, but strong hands were suddenly grabbing him by the wrists and dragging him across the floor.  

“Stay down,” Ian whispered against his ear.  

Ian had backed up against the desk in the corner.  His EMT back was yanked open and his uniform and supplies were strewn all around them.  Mickey could barely see but he felt Ian lift him, yanking him up into his arms and against his chest. He turned and stared up into the redhead’s face, seeing the trickle of blood that still ran down his cheek and neck.  His hand reached up unbidden to probe at the wound but Ian batted it away with his chin.  He was breathing hard, but as Mickey was fading, he could see his furious boyfriend tapping into his reserves of strength.  

“Don’t fucking move,” Ian spit at the bleeding, rage driven man who was still standing in their kitchen, trying to staunch his blood and hold a gun with the same hand.

“You only fucking grazed me, you little shit!”  He took two steps forward around the couch when another explosion sounded.  Even through the haze of his vision, Mickey could see the uncertainty in his old man’s eyes.  His own unsteady gaze followed the long lines of Ian’s arms, where they encased him on either side, meeting out in front of him where they held and steadied a…

Fuck!  For the first time, Mickey’s aching, pistol-whipped mind fully comprehended what the fuck was going on.  Ian was the one doing the shooting.  Ian had the gun!  But he’s said he wouldn’t…

“You said you…”

“Shhhhh,” Ian whispered against his temple, cutting off his slurring voice.  Mickey felt the redhead straighten behind him as he carefully re-aimed..  

“And you just grazed your son.  I know, see, because we just came back from visiting him in the fucking hospital, you miserable fuck.  But didn’t you just point out that if you don’t finish the job the first time, you can just go back and try again?” 

Terry snorted, but his derision sounded feigned.  “You think your woozy little pansy ass can actually shoot straight enough to hit me?”

“You wanna try and find out?” Ian spit back viciously.  

Mickey could feel the dark shadows of unconsciousness encroaching further and further into his line of sight.  His body was going limp and he fought back his panic.  This couldn’t fucking happen now, not when they were locked in a literal standoff with the homicidal maniac who sired him.  

“Sure,” Terry drawled out, and Mickey cringed at the re-emerging confidence in the man’s voice.  The old bastard took a hesitant but determined step forward, halting again when Ian waved the gun at him.  For the first time, Terry seemed to realize that he held a gun in his own fucking hands, finally training it on the two of them as they huddled on the floor.  Shit!  Mickey knew his father didn’t want to end his life this way, but if push came to shove, the old fuck would definitely shoot him.  He’d shoot them both.  

“You two are just the start, you know,” he threatened.  “But you should be fucking grateful I’m taking you out first.  You won’t have to see the rest of it. I’m gonna wade through every person you’ve both ever given a fuck about.” He let his filthy gaze settle on Ian for a moment, “But fuck it.  Maybe I’ll let Frank live, for shits and giggles.”

Mickey felt Ian tense up behind him, but Terry was already turning his gaze back on him.  “I’ll save Mandy for last,” he promised darkly, “have a little more fun with her before I put a fucking bullet in her head.”

Mickey’s eyes were fixed on his father’s when the next shot ran out.  He saw Terry’s hazel gaze squint in shocked pain just before the old man collapsed back on the floor.  He rolled from side to side, choking and clutching at his stomach .  

“I’ll kill you!” he garbled out, his voice thick and sludgy now, “I’ll kill both you faggot ass pieces of shit.”

“Maybe,” Mickey heard Ian murmur from behind him, “but you won’t be touching anyone else, you fuck.”

And Ian was right.  Mickey could tell that even in his half conscious state.  Blood was gushing out of the bullet wound in his father’s abdomen.  Gut wounds were almost always fatal. He’d read that somewhere.

But he’d also read that those wounds could take a long time.  And Terry still had his fucking gun.  The old man was fighting his way back up to a sitting position, spitting out mouthfuls of crimson blood onto the floor.   _ Gonna need a new rug _ , Mickey thought hysterically as he looked down at the red tracks he’d left behind when Ian had dragged him to safety.  Stupid thought really.  They’d have to survive this first.  

Ian was trying to keep the muzzle of his Glock pointed straight at Terry, but his hands were shaking too badly to keep his aim true.  How many bullets were left?  Mickey honestly didn’t know.  Maybe two?  Maybe just one?  Terry was coughing and retching but the hateful fire was still burning bright in his eyes and he still had his own pistol.  He was going to turn it on them if it was the last thing he did.  But what the fuck should they do?  They couldn’t afford for Ian to fire another warning shot and they sure as fuck couldn’t afford to have him miss again.  

If he missed, they were dead.  

“Don’t fucking move,” Ian demanded as Terry rocked himself forward into a sitting position, causing more blood to spill from his wound.  “Just fucking sit there and don’t move.”

But his father wasn’t going to listen.  Mickey’s sludgy mind was fighting to take action but his body just wasn’t responding.  He could do nothing but lie helplessly against Ian’s chest and wait.  Behind him, he could feel Ian straining to hold the gun.  The redhead was muttering a litany of panicked curses against his ear as Terry tried to steady himself and bring his own weapon up.  

Terry’s arm shot up suddenly and Mickey’s whole body tensed as the sound of a shot echoed throughout the apartment.  A final, desperate surge of adrenaline had him whipping around towards Ian, tackling the taller man down on the floor.  They landed hard and a fresh jolt of sickening pain pierced his brain, but his hands were working independently, frantically checking the redhead for bullet wounds. 

“I’m alright!  Fuck, Mickey, let me up.  I need to…” A strong arm wrapped itself around his waist and he felt himself being rolled to the ground as Ian leaned over him, pointing the Glock back in Terry’s direction.  Mickey’s vision was spotting again, but he could make out the look of intense confusion on Ian’s face and followed the gaze back to his father.  

At first, he thought Terry had just fallen backwards again.  He tried to ready himself for another attack, but his body was done.  It wasn’t going to let him move any more.  All he could do was stare at the huge, still form.  There was no movement, no sound.  There was only a thick spray of blood and tissue dripping slowly down the wall to the right of the kitchen.

“The fuck,” Ian choked out, leaning further over him and bracing himself on the hand that held the gun, “That wasn’t...I didn’t…”

“Ian,” came a voice from their left, calm but firm and authoritative.  Mickey could see Ian whip his head left, the fear in his face melting away to relief.  Mickey rolled his eyes back.  It was all he could manage.  The last vestiges of tension ran out of his body as he saw Tony Markovich standing in their doorway, a slew of the co-op residents standing behind him with their service pistols at the ready.  

“Stay right there,” Tony stated.  There was no trace of naivete or good cheer in the southside cop’s voice or face.  He looked hard and determined as he stepped over Terry’s corpse and kicked the gun away from the limp hand.  Keeping his own weapon trained, he reached down and searched for a pulse.

“He’s dead,” he declared authoritatively, rising to his feet.  Mickey watched as Tony holstered his gun and stepped back with his hands raised.  

“It was a clean kill,” another neighbor stated, coming into the room.  The cop knelt down beside them.  “Let me have the gun,” he demanded calmly, prying it easily out of Ian’s shaking hands.  Another cop was taking Tony’s service pistol.   _ By the books,  _ Mickey thought,  _ They’re doing this by the books.   _

Tony knelt down beside them.  “We heard the shots,” he murmured to Ian as they both gazed down at where Mickey still lay sprawled on the floor.  “Never thought in a million years that bastard would have the balls to come in here.”

Ian was leaning down and Mickey could feel his long fingers probing delicately at the knots forming all over his skull and jaw.  “He needs an ambulance,” he heard the redhead demand.

“So do you,” Tony answered.  “They’re on the way.” The cop let himself fall back and lean against the desk, out of Mickey’s sight.  

More cops, most of them in their street clothes, were still milling around the entrance to the apartment.  Mickey could hear their voices and see their shadows as they passed around him, but he kept his dimming gaze fixed on Ian.  

“He’s dead?”

“He is.”

“How the fuck do you know?  Did you look?”  The panic in his voice hurt his head but he couldn’t help it.  

Ian shook his head,  “Tony said…”

“I need to fucking look!”  His brain was screaming and he could barely see but he fought to roll over onto his side.  

“Mick…”

“No!” Ian shut up immediately at the word, “No, I need to fucking see!  I need to.” Mickey rocked hard, ignoring the agonizing shards of pain in his head as he struggled to sit up.

Strong hands grabbed his shoulders, pulling him upright and cradling him against a firm chest.  “Okay,” Ian said softly against his ear, reaching around his shoulders to hold him steady.  “Alright.  But let me help.” 

Ian pulled him gently up to his knees, pausing to catch his breath.  There was some movement around them and then another set of hands were helping, propping him up from the other side as Ian pushed them both to their feet.  It was Tony, he realized suddenly, and he shot the cop a look of gratitude as they two men helped him take shaky steps towards his father’s corpse.

It looked smaller, empty.  The eyes were blank and the face was slack.  A tiny hole spilled little rivulets of tacky blood above the right eye.  A huge pool of red spread out on the floor underneath the body.  

He was dead.  He was gone.  

There was nothing left to be afraid of.

Mickey thought he’d want to spit in the face, or pummel the empty body with his fists.  But instead, he reached out with one toe, swaying slightly into Ian’s arms as he did, and nudged gently at the old man’s left leg.  It was heavy, limp, and lifeless.

Mickey closed his eyes.  He could barely see out of them anymore anyway.  His knees were giving out but he clung tightly to Ian’s shoulders.

“Get me away from him,” he whispered, no longer embarrassed by the pleading in his voice.  And he no longer gave a fuck who saw when Ian swung him up into his arms and carried him out of the apartment.

The floor of the lobby was hard but Ian kept him cradled close.  It was cold in there.  Someone was obviously holding the outside door open, but Mickey didn’t open his eyes to check.  The cold didn’t feel too bad and Mickey suddenly realized he still had his fucking coat on. 

“They’re two minutes out,” he heard a voice say above him.  He could feel Ian nod, pulling him even tighter against his chest.  The redhead’s lips brushed his ear.  

“They’re almost here,” he whispered, “You’re gonna be okay.  We’re all gonna be okay.”

Mickey forced his eyes open one last time.  His vision was swimming with shadowy spots but he could just make out the outline of Ian’s green gaze.  He stared up at it, nodding slightly, as a wave of euphoria filled him. 

Okay.  They were going to be okay.  They were alive.  Terry was dead.  

Game over.  

He closed his eyes again as Ian pressed a kiss to his lips.  His body was heavy and this time, there was nothing in the world that could have compelled him to move.    
“Stop fighting,” Ian whispered in his ear. “You don’t have to anymore.  When you wake up, it’ll still be okay.”

Mickey felt Ian’s arms tighten around him.  He heard the truth in the redhead’s voice.  And with that, Mickey let go and let the darkness suck him down.  

He knew Ian would be there when he woke up.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Up: Moving on


	21. I See Our Freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving on...

**December 14, 2019**

Ian braced his hands on the rim of the bathroom sink, steadying himself as he stared into the mirror.  After a week of rest, his vision was no longer swimming and the floor didn’t feel like it was rocking like the deck of a ship every damn time he stood up.  He was still tired though, and he knew he’d been pushing it by showering and then walking downstairs to the Gallagher kitchen to do a load of laundry and make himself and Mickey some sandwiches.  

Fiona would be pissed when she realized he’d been running around like that and she’d probably call Deb and Vee and even Mandy and have the whole weird sisterhood of them over here bitching at him.  But what the fuck was he supposed to do?  He couldn’t just lie around eating cereal all the time now that Fi and the rest of his hovering siblings had finally relented and gone back to work or school.  

Ian frowned.  He was staring into the mirror but his mind was miles away.  Now, he let his gaze focus in on the reflection staring back at him.  He was still pale and tired but the dark, hollowed circles under his eyes had faded to dull shadows.  Turning his head, he examined the stitches around the edge of his ear.  They itched a little but at least they were no longer tender to the touch.  The vivid, blue black bruising that had splashed across his temple and cheek were fading to an ugly lavender color.  He offered his reflection a grim smile. He was healing.

Ian took a step into the hallway, looking up and down the familiar space.  It was silent in the house now.  He’d finally,  _ finally  _ convinced Fiona to head back to work two days ago. It hadn’t been an easy argument to make.  His sister had gone full-blown Mama Bear on him when the hospital had finally released him.  He’d understood her reasons but he’d also been frustrated as fuck.   _ He _ wasn’t the one with intracranial pressure and multiple deep tissue and bone contusions across his whole head.  

He did have a three inch laceration on his scalp, but since Mickey had a matching wound, Ian wasn’t even willing to complain about that.  

Fiona had been hovering insistently and at first, Ian had been too weak and freaked out to care.  Mickey hadn’t been released for two more days and Ian, bitch and argue though he might, had finally conceded that he was still too injured to go visit the other man.  They’d spoken by phone every day but Ian had still been half manic by the time the doctors had finally declared Mickey well enough to leave the hospital.  

It had been a huge relief to all of them but the trouble wasn’t over yet.  Mickey was on full time bed rest for a minimum of one week.  Ian hadn’t really been consulted on the plans, still too out of it himself to offer any opinion worth listening to, but he hadn’t really been surprised when Debbie had shaken him awake in the artificial dark of the his bedroom in the Gallagher house and helped him shove over.  He’d peered through the dim light to see Lip and Iggy supporting a shaky, scrub clad Mickey between them.  Neither of them had made an single asshole comment.  Instead, they’d carefully deposited the brunette into Ian’s arms, slipping out of the room while the two of them clung to each other. 

Ian owed them for that.  He owed Fiona and Mandy, too, he knew, but the constant hovering had worn thin quick.  He’d been able to convince Mandy to give it a rest and head back to work after only two days, but Fiona had taken a little more convincing.  

“What the hell are you going to do if he needs food?  Or medicine?  What the fuck are you going to do if he needs to take a fucking shit?”

Fiona had been standing by the couch, glaring up at him as he sat on the stairs, resting his forehead against the bannister as he gazed down at her.  His sister had looked polished and pulled together in slacks and a blouse and he hadn’t been able to contain a smile at the competent looking business woman spewing profanity from her southside core.  

“What are you grinning at?” she’d groused, but her voice had softened.  

“Nothing,” he’d answered, glancing back up the stairs, “Fi, I’ll handle it.  I mean, it’s not like he can’t walk at all.  He’s just not supposed to be up much.”

“And you think you’ve got this covered.  You gonna drag his ass to the bathroom if he needs it?”

“Yeah,” he’d retorted in a stubborn voice, “He’s done it for me before.”

That time, Fiona’s face had softened, too.  She’d lowered her head, nodding.  “Alright,” she’d said finally, shifting her gaze back towards him, “but you call me if you need anything.”

He’d given her a half-assed thumbs up but she’d seemed satisfied.  

So they’d been left on their own for the past few days, with nothing but a constant stream of texts from their respective siblings to disturb them.  They’d saved the more complicated shit, like changing the dressing on their matching head wounds, for when Fiona and Liam were home at night.  

It was getting a little easier every day.  Mickey was improving.  He spent less and less time sleeping.  On the day Fi had finally headed back to work, Ian had even gotten him to sit up and watch a movie with him on Liam’s laptop.  They’d done that a lot over the last few days and Ian wanted to count it as progress, but he just wasn’t sure.  Too often, Mickey would drift away, letting his head fall on Ian’s shoulder and his mind run off to some distant place. 

Ian didn’t know where Mickey was going but if there was one thing he did know with absolute fucking certainty, it was that Terry’s death hadn’t magically made everything better.  There were still plenty of dark corners in Mickey’s head, places he didn’t need to go alone.  He’d snap back quickly whenever Ian spoke to him but even a little time alone with those thoughts, those memories, was more than the brunette needed right now.

Ian paused in the doorway of his room, letting his eyes drift over the lump in the bed.  Sure enough, Mickey’s eyes were fixed on the far wall, rigid and unseeing.  It was unnerving.  Mickey was always so hyper aware of his surroundings and Ian wasn’t about to mourn the loss of that vigilance, honed in the fires of the Milkovich hell house.  But still, Mickey seemed adrift, as if the death of his asshole sperm donor had torn down the last of his walls, leaving him running everywhere, like an egg without a shell.  

It made Ian tense.  His mind kept returning to the memory of Mickey, drawn deep inside of himself, his confidence and bravado shot to shit as he hid from the world on Mandy’s couch.  This seemed different, but Ian wasn’t willing to take any chances.  

It reminded him too much of Sheila.

No, fuck this.  He wasn’t going to sit back and watch that shit take root.

He strode into the room on legs that were only shaking slightly and slid into the bed right in front of Mickey, gently jostling the other man backwards.  Mickey’s blue eyes snapped back to him immediately and he offered a little smile, but Ian just caught his gaze and held it as he pressed their foreheads close together.  Without breaking eye contact, he reached down and pulled the blanket up and over their heads, cocooning them away from the rest of the world.  He let one large hand cup the back of Mickey’s head as he pressed a light kiss to the other man’s lips.

“Where do you keep going?” he asked.

Mickey’s face scrunched in confusion, “The fuck,” he muttered.  There was a hint of familiar amusement in the tone that loosened the knot in Ian’s chest.  “I can’t even take a piss without someone following me into the fucking bathroom.  What do you mean?”

But Ian wasn’t going to let this shit slide.  

“You keep disappearing into your head,” he stated simply, keeping his eyes locked on Mickey’s blue ones, “Sometimes even when I’m sitting right next to you.”

Mickey sighed, “Fucking tired and shit…”

“No,” Ian kept his tone low but he could hear the tension in his voice.  Mickey could obviously hear it too, since a sliver of guilt flickered in his eyes.  Ian paused to take a deep breath, rubbing his fingers into the muscles of Mickey’s back.  “Please don’t do that shit, okay.  Please?  I know what you’re like when you’re tired.  This isn’t it.”  He dug his fingers in harder, attacking the knots of stress in the brunette’s neck and shoulders as they stared into his other’s eyes.  “Please,” he pleaded, “tell me where you keep going.”

“I’m not…”Mickey trailed off as a fine sheen of frustrated moisture misted over his eyes.  He blinked them furiously away, “I just can’t get some of this shit out of my head.  I don’t fucking want it there but I can’t get it gone.” His voice was choked and he squeezed his eyes tight against more impending tears.  

Ian nodded.  He’d expected as much but he hadn’t been sure that Mickey would admit to it.  

“You want to talk about it?”

“No!” 

Mickey’s response was quiet but forceful, with a tinge of his previous aggression.  Ian felt another sigh escape him and he pulled Mickey closer.

“We can’t go back to that shit, Mick,” he pleaded quietly against the other man’s lips, “We said we weren’t going to bury all this anymore.”

“It’s not…”Mickey trailed off for a moment, his voice rife with frustration.  He pried his eyes open and locked them on Ian’s, and now he was the one who was pleading, “It’s not that.  Not what you think.  It isn’t...I’m not pissed at you, okay.” he trailed off for a moment, but Ian forced himself to hold  his tongue as Mickey found the words. “It’s not you, okay?  You’re the good shit.” He reached up his own hand then, and Ian felt him cup his cheek.  “ _ You’re _ the good shit,” he insisted again, holding Ian’s gaze.

“It’s me,” Mickey continued eventually, shifting his gaze away, “I don’t want to talk about this.  I mean, you know so much because you were there, but we still don’t talk about it much.  And there’s other shit, stuff I don’t even think about, that I buried so fucking deep and I don’t want…”

There was an hysterical hitch in Mickey’s voice now, but Ian didn’t dare stop him.  He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear some of the shit Mickey might eventually tell him about his childhood either, but he’d make himself listen to every fucking word if it helped him glue the shattered love of his life back together.  

“There is shit I’ve never said out loud.  Fuck, some of it, I’ve never even admitted in my own head.  And I don’t want to fucking talk about it.  It’s not that I don’t want to tell you.  It’s that I don’t want to tell me.”

His voice cracked slightly on the last word and he slammed his eyes closed and buried his face into Ian’s neck.  There was nothing Ian could do but hold him, relieved that at least Mickey was turning towards him with his pain instead of away.  

That was also progress.

They lay quietly as minutes passed and the tightly strung lines of Mickey’s body began to slowly relax beneath Ian’s hands.

“I’m not a shrink,” Ian said quietly, “and if you want me to shut up about this, I will.  But can I ask you one question?”

Mickey said nothing but Ian could feel a hesitant nod against his chest.

“Does it hurt?”

“What?” Mickey pulled back slightly and looked up at him through red rimmed eyes.

“Keeping that shit in your head?”

Mickey snorted lightly.  “Yeah, it fucking hurts.”

“Okay,” Ian nodded, catching his eyes again, “So, it hurts, right, and you know that.  But what if talking about it, getting it out of your head, makes it feel better?”

“What if it makes it worse?”

“Then we don’t do it anymore.”

Mickey blinked away, fixing his gaze on Ian’s chest.  More silence.  Ian bristled with nerves but held his tongue.  He couldn’t speak first.  He had to let Mickey…

“I killed my dad.”

_ What? _

“The hell are you talking about?” 

The words were out of Ian’s mouth before he could stop them but Mickey barely seemed to notice.  

“I killed my dad,” he repeated in a flat voice, letting his eyes drift back up to Ian’s.

“The fuck you did.”

“The fuck I didn’t.”

Ian huffed and pulled the brunette closer.  “Mick, if this is the shit you’ve got in your head then fuck it, you do need to talk about it.”

“Yeah?” the brunette asked sharply against his chest.  

“Yeah!  Fuck, I don’t know.  I said I wasn’t a shrink.” Ian shimmied down the mattress until they were at eye level again.  “Please? Tell me why you think that shit.”

Mickey sighed.  “I goaded his ass.  If I hadn’t…” he trailed off.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Mick?”

Even in the dim light deep under the blanket, Ian could see the other man shut his eyes.  He could see his lips curl into a grimace.  “Mick?” he asked again tentatively.

“Fuck...I don’t fucking know, man.  I don’t even fucking know what to say.  It’s...fucking...fucking  _ ridiculous. _  I didn’t do...he would have just fucking  _ killed _ us.”  Ian could feel his nodding reflexively as Mickey poured out his rant.  “Tony wouldn’t have fucking known to come down.  You probably wouldn’t have gotten to the gun.” The brunette paused, drawing in a deep breath.  “We’d be dead.”

“We’d be dead.” Ian repeated emphatically.

“We’d be fucking dead.”  Mickey exhaled hard, rolling onto his back beneath the canopy of the blanket.  “I fucking know that but…”

“Do you know what your problem is?” Ian interjected, kicking himself silently but unable to hold back.  Mickey turned his head and looked at him.

“Thought you weren’t a shrink.”

“I’m not.  This is common sense, asshole.  Right now, you’re thinking you’re some kind of piece of shit but your real problem is that you aren’t.  You never were.  He could never make you be one.”

Mickey snorted again, puffing the blanket away from his face.  “Really?  Even when I was busting kneecaps and hustling and pimping…”

“Yeah, or when I was scamming or cheating on you to do porn.”

“Fuck, that’s not the same.  You were just…”

“What?” Ian caught his chin, turning his head to the side, “What was I doing?  Surviving?”

Mickey sighed, his breath gentle against Ian’s cheek.  “Yeah.”

“Yeah.  Yeah I was.  Surviving a whole lot of shit and a lot of it I couldn’t even control.  I did some bad shit to survive.  So did you.  But you never became what he wanted you to become.”  Ian could feel his voice rising slightly but Mickey didn’t try to look away.  “He was a piece of shit.  He could hurt his own family and not give a fuck.  But you do give a fuck because  _ you aren’t him. _ ”  Ian pressed a hard kiss to Mickey’s lips, keeping his gaze fixed on the brunette’s wide blue eyes.  “The fucker wanted to kill us.  I’ve said this to you before but I’ll say it again.  I was glad when the bastard went to prison and I’m not sorry he’s dead.”

Mickey laughed darkly, “I’m not either.”

“Then why…” Ian cut himself off as Mickey pulled his head away gently.

“I don’t know, man.  I told you it didn’t make any fucking sense.”

Sighing, Ian let himself flop over on his own back.  They lay side by side, staring up at the blankets even as their fingers sought each other out and twined together.  

“This shit isn’t gonna go away on it’s own, Mick.”

Mickey clenched his fingers.

“I know.”

“I mean, we’ve talked about some of this shit before but it keeps coming back.”

Beside him, Mickey huffed out a frustrated breath.  “Fucker’s dead now.  Maybe it’ll go away for good without him around to drag it back up.”

Ian nodded tentatively.  “Maybe.  But we could help it.”

“How?”

“Come see my shrink with me.”

Mickey’s fingers tightened around his.  “What, you mean like couple’s therapy or some shit?  Fuck, Ian…”

“You said you’d come.  Before all of this shit, remember?”

Mickey groaned into the blanket.  “I know.”

“You want to know what I think about over and over again,” Ian asked, rolling onto his side again, “I wonder what would’ve happened if I hadn’t run off with Monica.  You wanted me better.  I think I’d have come around, gotten on my meds sooner.  And your ass would’ve come to therapy with me.  You were ready to do it then.”  He tugged at their intertwined fingers, “Weren’t you?”  He tugged again.  Mickey glanced at him sideways but nodded.

“Yeah.” 

“And now?”

Mickey stared up at him and Ian could see the battle going on in his head.

“You know,” he said slyly, “Terry would think it was pussy shit.”

Mickey let his eyes fall shut but a slow smile split his lips.  “Let’s do it.”

“Yeah?’

“Yeah.” The blue eyes opened again, finding his in the dim light.  Reaching up, Mickey pulled him down into a kiss. “Yeah,” he said again, his voice firm against Ian’s lips, “Yeah.  Now can we go to sleep again?”

They curled into each other’s arms in the darkness of their blanket cocoon.  Ian could feel himself drifting away when he suddenly felt Mickey snort against his skin.

“Couples therapy,” the brunette muttered sleepily.  “Fuck me.”

“Not yet,” he quipped, “Not until your head heals.”

“Fuck you.”

“I told you I’d bottom.”

He felt a light slap and a final snort against his skin.

“Fuck…”

************************************************************************************

**December 22, 2019**

The new carpet felt soft beneath Ian’s feet as he rolled up the dropcloth and put it away.  He glanced into the kitchen.  From this angle of the living room, he could just make out the patch job that Tony had done on the kitchen cabinets.  The paint color didn’t quite match but you had to look close to see it. 

Smiling to himself, he turned in a circle, taking in the living room walls.

By the time he and Mickey had gotten back home three days ago, the co-op residents had thoroughly cleaned the place.  They’d ripped up and replaced the old rug and patched all the holes.  They’d been set to repaint the walls the next day but Mickey had stepped in, insisting that they could do it themselves.  Tony had started to argue but Ian had just shaken his head and the perceptive southside cop had shut up and nodded.  

Mickey had needed this.  He’d needed to feel like he’d had a hand in reclaiming his home.  And now, three days later, it was done, just in time for Ian to return to work tomorrow.  Folding up the final dropcloth, he set it in a pile next to the front door.  His work bag was already repacked and waiting in the entryway beside the painting supplies.  Mickey wasn’t supposed to be back to work full time yet, but Ian knew the brunette would be taking care of some business tomorrow.  The paint shit would give him an excuse.

Mickey needed his routine back, too.

Ian killed the living room light and stripped as he headed into the bedroom, tossing all of his sweaty shit into the hamper.  He could hear the water running in the shower and followed the sound.  He’d sent his reluctantly recuperating boyfriend that way ten minutes ago, insisting that he’d clean up the remains of the paint supplies himself.  He didn’t know if it was because Mickey wasn’t a hundred percent yet or if he just knew that Ian was still on edge and protective as hell, but he'd gone without an argument.

Ian pushed open the door to the bathroom, pausing for a moment to take in the view before joining the brunette in the shower.  Mickey was leaning against the wall with his eyes closed, enjoying the hot water, but he stood up and easily returned the favor when Ian grabbed the shampoo and began rubbing it through his dark hair.  

He’d kept it shorter.  Ian was getting used to it.

Washing quickly turned to teasing touches and playful kisses.  They’d been good through Mickey’s whole recovery but when the doctor had said Mickey was cleared for physical activity, Ian had almost jumped up and fucking whooped.  He’d settled for giving the brunette a naughty smile but they’d been making up for lost time ever since.  Before he even realized it, he had Mickey pressed up against the water warmed shower wall as he pushed inside of him.

It was careful and gentle.  Ian might be desperate to touch the other man but he sure as fuck wasn’t going to risk hurting him.  And more and more, he found himself loving the slow easy love-making they could enjoy with time on their hands and no threats breathing down their necks.  

Mickey’s arms were spread out above them, his fingers curving around the lip of the shower.  He had turned his head, pressing his cheek to the wall.  His eyes were shut, his dark, wet lashes spikey against his cheek, but his mouth was open as he keened into the steamy air.  As he rolled his hips, pressing deeper inside the brunette, Ian let his forehead rest gently against Mickey’s temple, the better to hear the abandoned sounds that poured from the other man’s mouth.

Ian couldn’t describe how he craved those sounds.  It didn’t matter if they were playing in their bed or fucking raucously on their couch, he needed to have Mickey this open and uninhibited.  There was nothing more erotic to him than for Mickey to finally feel safe enough to lose himself like that.  It sent shocks of pleasure to all of Ian’s nerve endings and he thrust just a little harder, until Mickey was pushing back against him and crying out as he clenched around him.  The sudden pressure dragged Ian’s own orgasm from him and they collapsed back against the wall together, clinging to each other as they panted in tandem.  They stayed that way, Ian pressed against Mickey’s back and holding him close, until the hot water began to run low.

Looking over his shoulder, Mickey grinned wickedly and placed a kiss on his lips. “Better get out,” he quipped as he rinsed them both off quickly under the cooling spray.  

They toweled off and brushed their teeth, catching each other’s eyes contentedly in the mirror in acknowledgement of the little domestic moments they both loved.  

Ian caught the brunette by the hips as they stepped into the hall, spinning him around and pressing their lips together.  He walked them towards their room while Mickey laughed and hit the lights off as they passed.  They fell into their bed together in the dark of their home, letting their tongues dance together for a moment.  They were tired and Mickey needed sleep, but they’d be primed as hell for the morning.

Mickey curled into his side, flinging his leg over Ian’s thigh and pillowing into his shoulder.  Ian wrapped an arm around him, letting his fingers rub firm, massaging circles over the brunette’s hip, ass, and lower back.   He lay perfectly still, counting the ins and outs of Mickey’s breath until the brunette’s body slumped, sleep-heavy and relaxed, across his chest.  

Gently, he let his other hand creep up to cup the other man’s cheek.  The room was dark but Ian had studied Mickey’s sleeping face enough to know how open and serene he now looked when he slept.  And there was nothing in the world that made Ian more content than the knowledge that Mickey slept deeply when he slept beside him.

Glancing through the open bedroom door, Ian stared into the distant darkness of their living room.  The paint job was finished and with it went the last tangible evidence of Terry Milkovich’s presence.  The man wasn’t gone, not completely.  Hell, he probably never would be, rearing his ugly head through the scars and deeply buried memories they both held.  But fuck it.  They’d be able to deal with those.  Ian believed that now.  

In the meantime, they’d sit in their living room.  They’d cook in their kitchen, fuck in their shower and sleep in their bed.  In their home.

Ian smiled to himself.  He shifted slightly, tensing for a second as he jostled the sleeping brunette more forcefully than he intended.  Mickey grunted and burrowed more deeply into the heat of Ian’s shoulder.

But he didn’t wake up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PHEW!!!!!!
> 
> So glad this is done. I feel like I second guessed this entire story, probably because I'd had it in my head for so long and had such high expectations for getting it out and in actual writing. But now, I can safely say I'm proud of it.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who weighed in and gave feedback, critique and support. 
> 
> I am plotting a new story right now but will probably take a little break before starting anything. In the meantime, I'm also outlining a short follow-up for this story, so if people are interested in reading more in this universe, please keep your eyes peeled.
> 
> Again, thanks for all the wonderful support!


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